


Let This River Flow

by twisting_vine_x



Category: Sherlock (TV), Superlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Croatoan, Explicit Sexual Content, Language, London, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Reichenbach, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2018-01-08 20:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisting_vine_x/pseuds/twisting_vine_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/N: Post-Reichenbach, and set post-S8 of Supernatural.</p><p>Summary:  In the year 2014, after an unknown disease decimates most of humankind, John and Sherlock are left doing their best to just stay alive, scraping out an existence in the quarantined city of London – until they stumble into the lives of two brothers and a fallen angel, who talk of the Devil as though he’s a real being, and who have a name – <i>Croatoan</i> – for the virus that’s torn the planet apart. From then on, John and Sherlock find themselves caught up in the epicenter of the battle, and it’s going to take everything they have to make it through with their humanity intact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N #2: Title comes from ‘Let This River Flow’ by Soilwork.
> 
> A/N #3: Written for sncross_bigbang on livejournal. Artwork by the talented finnickodair can be found here: http://felonious.livejournal.com/1911.html . Thank you again, m’dear. ♥

The attacks in London start less than six months after Sherlock has returned from the dead.  
  
Mycroft and Sherlock, of course, cotton on to the disease long before it even reaches England, but there’s nothing either of them can do to stop it. Even Mycroft, with all his power, doesn’t have the ability to shut down international transit in and out of the city, and it doesn’t take long before reports start to spring up everywhere, as ordinary people turn into monsters and start tearing each other apart. It’s beyond terrifying, actually – the way there are no external signs of the disease, and the way the creatures seem to keep vestiges of their humanity, in that they can still speak and use weapons and scheme and plan just as well as any healthy human – and Sherlock, naturally, spends a good deal of his time running around the city, with John hot on his heels. It tests their abilities in ways that even Moriarty didn’t, but even when they manage to bring in one of the creatures alive, there’s nothing to be done but to finally put a bullet in its brain, despite the way it gets down on its knees and pleads for mercy. Sherlock spends most of his time in a lab, and Mycroft brings in every scientist and medical specialist he can think of, but the verdict is always the same.  
  
Blood-borne disease. Incurable.  
  
After that, John tries to convince Sherlock to stop going out, terrified beyond belief that a single scratch could take Sherlock away forever – and when there’s a sudden upswing in disease reports, Sherlock even starts to listen to him. Neither of them have any desire to become one of those creatures, and they more or less barricade themselves into their flat – Mrs. Hudson, by some miracle, had left the place untouched, and John leans quickly that the miracle’s name is Mycroft – and slip into a bizarre mixture of past and present, in which John finds himself drowning in memories from before Sherlock’s death, even as their current situation becomes increasingly real and dangerous. There are monsters trying to break down their front door, and John and Sherlock spend a good deal of their time pouring over medical reports and disease analyses and archaic texts, attempting to find anything that Mycroft’s experts might have missed.  
  
That, and they have sex against every surface in their flat.  
  
It’s – John’s never had anything like this. Didn’t even imagine he could feel the way he does. He had long given up hope of Sherlock ever returning the way John’s spent years aching to be closer to him, and when Sherlock comes back from the dead, it takes them about a month of screaming matches before something seems to snap in Sherlock, and John only realizes he’s being kissed when he’s already been lifted up against the kitchen wall with his legs going tight around Sherlock’s waist and his heart slamming almost hard enough to choke his breathing, as something inside him seems to slot into place in a way that feels like finally, _finally_ , coming home.  
  
After that, they finally establish something that resembles functional communication methods. There are apologies from Sherlock – actual, genuine apologies, and it’s obvious that he’s terrified that John is still planning to leave him, after everything that Sherlock has put him through – and there are more than a couple of declarations of love from John – all those things he never got the chance to say before Sherlock’s death, and they’re most often answered by Sherlock pulling him in close and kissing him until he can’t breathe, stripping him naked and dragging his mouth over every inch of John’s body, until John is begging and desperate and feeling safe and cared for in a way he’s never been before – and they more or less spend several months either hunting monsters or reaffirming the fact that Sherlock is alive, and that neither of them are going anywhere. It’s painful, actually, the intensity of what they have, and John really shouldn’t be surprised that Sherlock is as all-or-nothing in this as he is in everything else he does. Sherlock has never done things by halves, and when John finds himself being owned and wanted and clung to and worshipped in a way that leaves him shaking, it gives him the freedom to do the same in return, and they spend more than a few nights wrapped around each other in silence, just breathing each other in, as the war outside their flat gets a bit worse with every passing day.  
  
Of course, they eventually have to leave London.  
  
The city is falling down around them, and they haven’t found any way to stop it – and when Mycroft offers them transit to a safe house outside of the city, they finally agree to take it. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly all elect to come with – Lestrade’s wife had been killed in the first attacks, and neither Molly nor Mrs. Hudson have family in the city, so nobody has anyone to stay for – and the five of them eventually find themselves flown to a walled-in compound in rural England, with running water, electricity, and enough canned food to hold them over for several years.  
  
It isn’t much. But it’s better than being in the city, where people are literally turning into monsters, chasing down their own friends and family members, or setting off bombs in public places and then deliberately infecting the remaining survivors. The only person stubborn enough to stay behind is Harry – desperate to find Clara – but John doesn’t give up on convincing her to leave. Their mobiles still work, despite the insanity around them, and not a day passes that he doesn’t send a message, needling her to come join them – until the day she stops texting back, and it’s like John can feel the world constricting around him. He gives her twenty-four hours, and then he goes to Sherlock and tells him that he’s returning to London, and, for the love of god, to please not follow him – to just stay where it’s safe – and Sherlock gives him a look that says he’s too stupid to live, and then goes to pack his things. The next morning finds John in one of Mycroft’s helicopters, with Sherlock sitting close beside him, his gun holstered and his expression pulled too tight, and the helicopter goes in low and does a sweep over Harry’s street –  
  
Which has been destroyed. Decimated. Everything is rubble. Harry’s apartment is mostly gone. People – probably infected – are crawling all over the broken buildings, and John only realizes he’s leaning out far enough to fall when Sherlock yanks him back, yelling in his ear, but everything seems hazy, too far away, and – then the helicopter’s leaving, banking away, and no amount of cursing from John can convince the pilot to turn around, _I have my orders, and we’re not to stay._ By the time they get back to the safe house, it’s dark outside, and John immediately goes to their bedroom, throws the necessary supplies in a backpack, and slips out the window – but he barely makes it to the driveway before Sherlock catches up, a pack on his back and a gun on his belt. And while John puts up a fight – things like _suicide mission_ and _I’m not going to get you killed_ – Sherlock gets his way eventually, and ten minutes later they’re outwitting the guards and driving down the deserted country road in one of Mycroft’s vehicles.  
  
And that’s how their descent into Hell starts.  
  
They don’t find Harry, of course. After three weeks of furtive searches across the city – Sherlock still has some semblance of a homeless network, even with the city falling into ruins – John’s about ready to try to convince Sherlock to go back to the safe house, and to set up permanent camp in London by himself – and then the unthinkable happens, and neither of them have a choice about staying.  
  
The city gets quarantined. A giant fence – well-guarded, with the kind of powerful weapons John doesn’t fancy going up against – goes up around the entire city, and the skies above are deemed a no-fly zone. The order comes from someone even higher up than Mycroft – Sherlock gets a frantic call from him only hours before the military surrounds the city, and it’s not enough time to make it out – and then John and Sherlock spend the first few days huddled together in some rundown flat, Sherlock looking just as dazed as John feels, until they finally rouse themselves enough to take stock of what they have, and to start planning how they’re going to acquire everything they need. Their first task is to find somewhere to set up a home base – somewhere defendable, where they can sleep in safety – and then they slip into a desperate routine of raiding grocery stores and military surplus outlets, of fighting their way through swarms of monsters, and of spending every moment watching out for the next creature that wants to tear them apart.  
  
\- - -  
  
By the end of month one, what they have isn’t fancy, but it works.  
  
They’re close to Regent’s Park station, and it’s a third-story bachelor flat – high enough off the ground that monsters aren’t likely to come in through the windows. There’s a decent-sized mattress on the dirty floor, along with a couple of old sofa chairs, and they even occasionally have the luxury of a working toilet, when they’re able to spare some of their precious water to flush the damn thing. Mostly, though, John just cares that the door locks, and that they’ve been able to board up the windows, and that the fire escape gives them a second exit if they can’t go out the main door.  
  
They have a gas-run camping stove, too, along with a store of batteries for their lamps, and they even manage to find some candles and matches, which John feels much better about using, since he wants those batteries to last as long as they can. Their cell phones have long since died, but they manage to amass enough canned food and bottled water to get by for a few months, and they also establish a small arsenal of weapons that makes John feel a bit better about their chances of one day fighting it out of here – of making it to the fence and finding some way to get through. And while their car had been stolen on their first night in London – disappearing, incredibly, right in the middle of a firefight with a swarm of monsters, and John wants to find whoever stole it and bash them over the head – John still hasn’t given up hope of getting them close enough to the fence to find a way through. It might take some time – there’s no way he’s leaving without Harry – but they’ve stuck it out for this long, and they’ve definitely got enough supplies and weapons to tough it out for as long as it takes to come up with a viable escape plan.  
  
The one thing they don’t have, though, is running water – and even if they did, John wouldn’t trust it. He knows damn well that the disease is blood-borne, and given that he could never be sure of where his water would be coming from, he has no desire to tempt fate. And by the third month of nothing but sponge baths – using some of their precious bottled water to scrub themselves down, when they get too rank for either of them to deal with anymore – John is pretty sure he might actually kill someone for the chance to have a proper shower. They have toothbrushes, at least, but John is sick of feeling filthy, and sick of being in the same room as Sherlock and barely even being able to touch him. Even if either of them were in the mood, there’s no hiding the fact that neither of them have seen running water for months, and while they still spend the nights wrapped up around each other, often clinging tight enough to hurt, John desperately misses being able to strip Sherlock naked and suck bruises into his skin until Sherlock’s shaking and desperate underneath him. Even beyond how much less agonizing their situation would seem if he could have that chance, there’s also the fact that it would provide a distraction for Sherlock, and –  
  
Yeah. John really wants to be that distraction. Because Sherlock – unsurprisingly – does not deal well with the end of the world. Sure, he arms himself to the teeth – gone are the days, apparently, when John was the muscle and Sherlock was the brains – and navigates the crumbling city with a surety that boggles John, but he just – he still isn’t doing well with it. It’s like John is watching, in slow motion, as Sherlock’s mental health – never good – begins to crumble, and John doesn’t know what he can do to stop it. They’re either trapped in their flat or out fighting for their lives, and unlike when they were working cases together, there’s no end game. There’s nothing for Sherlock to figure out – no great secret for him to deduce and unveil. There’s simply blood and terror, day in and day out, intermingled with the kind of boredom that even John can barely deal with, and when he eventually starts catching a look on Sherlock’s face that seems so far beyond _bored_ and looks more like absolute fucking desperation, John knows he needs to do something. Sherlock – ever impeccable – has become just as rundown as John, with his dark curls plastered greasy to his head, and his big damn black coat covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else, hanging limp around his body. He’s just as armed as John, too, with his handgun and his knives, and he looks, for all the world, like any other poor schmuck, trapped as they all are in this city –  
  
And John hates it. Fucking _hates_ it. Hates that he dragged Sherlock into this mess. Hates that he only just got Sherlock back, and now he’s spending every day desperate to keep him alive. When people get turned, there’s no cure, and John knows damn well that, if he ever has to put a bullet in Sherlock, his next step will be to put a gun in his own mouth. Knows that he’d never be able to live with himself. He can survive a lot – he survived the three years he thought Sherlock was dead, though it’s debatable how alive John really was – but he knows damn well that he’d never survive having to kill Sherlock. Doesn’t think Sherlock could survive John getting turned, either, and god, he _hates_ that they’re even trapped here in the first place. If only John had fought harder to stop Sherlock from coming, Sherlock would still be safe at Mycroft’s compound, and John wouldn’t be living with the constant knowledge that one tiny mistake could take Sherlock away from him forever.  
  
\- - -  
  
By the end of month two, John’s nightmares have changed.  
  
They used to be what he’d expected – Afghanistan, or the memory of Sherlock jumping to his death. Now, though, a third component has been added, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. For all that Harry and him have had their differences, and for all that they’ve spent most of their teenage and adult years fighting, she’s still his sister, and he still loves her, and when his nightmares start working her in, it’s a whole new level of torment. Some of them are expected – visions of the city, of Harry trapped somewhere, of her being killed by the creatures that have taken over London – but the others are more memories of their childhood, of them playing in the sandbox together, or of them walking in a forest, or of her pushing him on the tire swing in their childhood backyard – but, every time, they get twisted. The monsters show up, even in these memories, and they tear her apart, as a child, right in front of him, and he’s helpless to do anything but scream – has no weapon, and is a defenseless child again – and John takes to waking up shaking more than usual, nausea rolling through him. Sherlock, for his part, normally stares at him for a moment from where he’s standing guard by the door or the window – they sleep in shifts, of course – before he comes to sit beside John, hand on his shoulder and his gun in his lap, until John manages to grit his teeth and close his eyes again. Regardless of what his sleeping mind might be doing to torment him, he knows damn well that, the more sleep he can get, the better equipped he’ll be to find his sister before any of those nightmares come true.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
By the time month three is drawing to an end, John and Sherlock have gotten hold of an old map of the tube, and divided the city into sections in their search for Harry. John, of course, has a personal investment in the whole matter, and Sherlock – in addition to caring about John, even if he’s never given a damn about Harry – seems to regard the search as the closest thing to a case he’s going to find, because he’s never stopped throwing himself into the search with the same zeal he used to give to psychopaths and serial killers. It almost hurts to watch, actually, even if John appreciates the help.  
  
“We haven’t checked Westminster yet.”  
  
Sherlock – the tube map is spread out on the kitchen table, and he’s leaning over it, reading it by candlelight – doesn’t look at him, but John doesn’t need him to. He might not be able to read minds like Sherlock can, but he _can_ read Sherlock, and he knows Sherlock is weighing the odds. There are parts of London that are still relatively safe, but the closer one gets to the Thames, the greater the danger becomes, as too many desperate people try to get near the water – and John knows damn well that going anywhere near Westminster would involve venturing into areas of the city that have more or less become monster territory.  
  
“If she’s there, the chances of her still being alive –”  
  
“Please don’t.”  
  
Sherlock makes a face that seems disgruntled – a face that seems to say, _facts are facts, John, and you need to accept this_ – but John can’t be arsed to care. Doesn’t want to hear that this entire endeavour might be useless. Instead, he rests his finger on the Westminster dock, tries to picture the real world equivalent in his head.  
  
“It’s almost a direct line from us to there.”  
  
“I’m well aware –”  
  
“I don’t want you to come with me.”  
  
It’s a conversation they’ve had a few times before, and John barely gets the words out before Sherlock shoots him a glare and straightens up, pulling his coat tighter around him as he does so – and John would normally accuse him of theatrics, but, yeah, it’s fucking cold in the flat, and if Sherlock wants to wear his coat inside, then John really can’t think of any good reason for him not to.  
  
“Your white knight routine is becoming tedious.”  
  
Sherlock all but spits out the words, and John just glares right back. He knows it’s not a fair thing to ask of Sherlock – not with all the times John nearly got himself killed while chasing Sherlock around on cases – but all it takes now is one tiny scratch, and Sherlock shouldn’t even be here.  
  
“If I – if anything were to happen to you –”  
  
“You were always Moriarty’s trump card. Don’t think I don’t understand what guilt feels like.”  
  
The words feel much like being punched, and John knows he’s gaping, but he can’t seem to do anything about it. In the dim light, with that damn black coat and his cheeks hollowed to a point that looks almost painful, Sherlock looks, suddenly, like the very incarnation of how absolutely wretched John feels – looks like the last few months have been leaving a mark that won’t ever get the chance to heal – and, god, John needs to get them out of here. Needs to figure out some way to get them out of this horrible city before something happens and he loses Sherlock forever.  
  
“The weapons need to be checked. I’ll plan our route.”  
  
Apparently content to ignore the meltdown happening in John’s brain, Sherlock leans over the map again, very pointedly not looking at him, and John stares at him for a moment longer, before he takes a deep breath and goes to check on the weapons. If they’re actually going to be doing this, then the least he can do is make sure that they have plenty of bullets to deal with the monsters that are going to be trying to tear them apart.  
  
\- - -  
  
In the end, they do manage to make it to the Westminster area – mostly thanks to Sherlock’s knowledge of exactly which roads and alleys to take, and which buildings to scale – but it’s one of their most harrowing searches yet, and they barely make it back out alive. By the time they get back to their flat, John still hasn’t stopped shaking – too many close calls, _way_ too many close calls, and, christ, he _needs_ to find Harry, but he can’t keep dragging Sherlock along into these warzones, he _can’t_ – and he’s barely made it into the flat – locked the door and put his gun on the table – when Sherlock’s on him, grabbing him and shoving him up against the wall, and John kisses back like he’s depending on Sherlock to keep him breathing. Kisses and licks and scratches his way as close as he can, and they’re both smelly and covered in dirt and blood and god knows what else, but he needs – he _needs_ – claws at Sherlock as Sherlock gets a hand into his trousers and strokes him, hard, has John writing and bucking against the wall in seconds, biting at Sherlock’s lips as he tries to shove himself even closer, and when John comes all over Sherlock’s hand it’s to the sound of Sherlock’s voice in his ear, _I can’t lose you, I can’t, John, I –_  
  
John ends up spinning them around, shoving Sherlock up against the wall, and jerking him off until Sherlock’s shaking against him, clinging to him, his face buried in John’s neck as he makes noises that sound more like pain – and by the time Sherlock trips over the edge, his cock jerking hard in John’s hand and his come spreading hot and wet between them, John’s legs are barely holding him anymore, and they end up on their knees, wrapped tight around each other, both of them panting and _christ_ , John cannot lose Sherlock. Can’t ever lose him. Needs Sherlock more than he needs to breathe.  
  
\- - -  
  
A week later John wakes up to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring down at him and clutching hard at John’s legs. There’s a look on his face that John doesn’t like at all, and John’s up on his knees as quick as he can be, his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock stares at him with that same haunted look.  
  
“Hey, shh – what is it? Sherlock, whatever it is –”  
  
“I need – my head. There’s too much noise. I _need_ a case. I need – focus. I can’t focus. I –”  
  
The desperation there is like a punch to the ribs, and John can feel himself floundering, has nothing to offer, no way to distract Sherlock – does the only thing he can do, and Sherlock makes a low, pained sound as he lets himself be tugged down against John, John’s arms wrapped tight around him, and before John can say anything, Sherlock starts speaking low and fast against his shoulder.  
  
“I almost left. I almost – I needed out. Needed to – find something. A distraction of some –”  
  
“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock.”  
  
“– but I knew you’d be upset, so I stayed. But my _head_ , I can’t –”  
  
John kisses him. Can’t not. _I knew you’d be upset, so I stayed_ – christ. Too close.  Way too fucking close. And Sherlock’s still talking against his mouth, shaking against him, and John does what he can, kisses Sherlock until Sherlock stops talking and starts just breathing into John’s mouth, clutching at him until John finally pulls away to look at him. Sherlock’s looking no less frantic, though, and John runs a gentle hand down his back, wishes that they had a shower and a clean bed, so he could at least come up with a few ways to keep Sherlock distracted from his own head.  
  
“So talk to me. Analyse me, if it’ll help. Or, I don’t know – tell me your virus theories. Again.”  
  
“You don’t _understand_ –”  
  
“Sulphur, right? So, then – tell me how that’s even possible. Give me your craziest theories.”  
  
 _“John –”_  
  
“Or tear apart my life history, even. Tell me about cases I wasn’t around for. Whatever you –”  
  
“What I _need_ is to get out of this city.”  
  
Sherlock all but snarls it against John’s shoulder, clutching tighter at John as he presses his face further into John’s sweater, and John closes his eyes against the low burn of guilt. Hates himself, for a moment, with a fierceness that’s almost frightening. If it weren’t for him, Sherlock would be safely tucked away in Mycroft’s compound, pouring over blood samples – not lying here in this filthy old flat, clinging to John like he’s the only thing keeping Sherlock from flying apart.  
  
“I’m going to get you out of here.”  
  
“You won’t leave without your sister.”  
  
“I –”  
  
“And I won’t leave without you.”  
  
Sherlock says it like it’s simple fact – like John’s decisions aren’t holding their lives in balance – and John can’t stop a hurt noise. His skin feels too small, suddenly, and the room seems to be shrinking in on them, and all he can do is hold tighter to Sherlock as they both slide into silence, Sherlock still shaking against him and John feeling like something’s breaking apart inside him.  
  
\- - -  
  
After that night – neither of them had slept much, and Sherlock had been twitching the entire time John was awake – Sherlock makes a point of avoiding him, as though he’s embarrassed, or something equally stupid, and _god_ , they should be so far past this point, so far past the point of awkward silences, but John knows damn well that pushing Sherlock when he doesn’t want to talk is like hitting a bear with a stick, so he lets it go. Spends three painful days watching Sherlock claw the walls, as John pours over their map and tries to figure out which convenience stores and military surplus outlets they haven’t raided yet – and then, on night three, he wakes up to find Sherlock imitating a whirlwind in their small flat, yelling at John as he ricochets around the room, grabbing backpacks and water bottles and bullets and weapons.  
  
“Get up, dammit, _get up_ –”  
  
“Sherlock, what –”  
  
“One of my network located her. Now get –”  
  
There’s a ringing in John’s ears, and he’s already on his feet, scrambling for his backpack and his gun. They barely stop long enough to plan out their route before they go, and John is pretty sure his heart’s going to slam straight out of his chest. They had brought photos of Harry with them when they came back to London, and – once they’d been trapped in the city, and had established a base – Sherlock had handed them out to his crumbling homeless network and told them where to report, if anyone saw her – but nothing had come of it. There had been sign of her.  
  
Until now, apparently. And like hell is John going to lose her again.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time they make it to the area around Tower Hill station – and why, _why_ , is Harry anywhere near the goddamn river? – it’s taking every bit of training John has to keep his shit together. Crouched beside him – they’re on the roof of a small building, with the Thames spread out before them, looking just the same as it always has – Sherlock’s looking just about as bad as John feels, and John gets it. If they screw this up, they’ll either end up dead, or they’ll make it out alive but still won’t have the option of leaving the city, because Harry will still be out there somewhere.  
  
“Where is –”  
  
“I’m meeting my contact here.”  
  
“And who –”  
  
Sherlock shushes him just as something makes a noise behind them, and they both spin around, guns up – and then Sherlock’s keeping his gun pinned on the young woman who steps out from behind the chimney, and John does the same, eyeing the large knife in the woman’s hand. She’s got blue eyes and a mess of dark blonde hair, can’t be older than twenty-five, and her clothes are full of holes; and John would offer his sweater, but it’s not in much better shape. Swallows hard and then reminds himself that there are no visible signs of the virus – no way to tell for sure.  
  
“Jasmine.”  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
For a moment, nobody moves, Sherlock and Jasmine just glaring at each other across the rooftop – and then Jasmine’s mouth twists into something that almost looks like a pained smile, and she takes a step away from them, her hand still gripping her knife and her eyes never leaving them.  
  
“You holster those guns and leave enough space between us, and I’ll take you to her.”  
  
Sherlock waits for a moment longer, studying her in silence, and then he nods and lowers his gun, holstering it, John wavering for a second before he does the same, and Jasmine turns and slides back down the fire route, and John glances at Sherlock before they both follow. Jasmine keeps steady hold of her knife as they all hit the ground again, and John and Sherlock leave her a good chunk of space as they follow her – twisting steadily closer towards the river, with John watching the area behind them for monsters, and Sherlock keeping his eyes on the woman in front of him – until they’re crouching against the wall of an old house, and staring down at a giant concrete wall. It’s a prison, obviously – barb wire running all along the top of that wall – and the river is dangerously close, running along the other side of the prison, and John doesn’t know how they haven’t run into trouble yet. This seems like just the sort of place that the creatures would want to infest.  
  
“It’s a shelter. The entire area is well defended.”  
  
“Why don’t I know about this?”  
  
Sherlock – unsurprisingly – sounds personally insulted – as though this lack of knowledge is an unforgivable oversight on his part – and the wry smile the woman gives him makes John wonder just how well the network actually knows Sherlock. This woman, at least, seems amused by Sherlock’s reaction – provided, of course, that it’s not just a ruse, and that they’re not following a monster into a trap.  
  
“It sprung up out of nowhere, just over a week ago. Some folks just swooped in and cleared out the whole thing.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Dunno. But there’s a quarantine to get in.”  
  
It’s said with a shrug, and she’s already moving again, but John watches as Sherlock soaks in the new information – it’s like John can actually see his mind latching on to it – and he can’t stop a fond smile, even as he nudges Sherlock to keep going. It takes a second to get Sherlock out of his head, and then Sherlock twitches a smile back at him, and they’re darting across a brief area of open space, and following the woman along the wall until it molds into the side of a guardhouse. The front door opens when she pushes on it, and John glances at Sherlock before they follow her through –  
  
To come face to face with a wall of guns. Or, more specifically, a prison entrance room with people aiming weapons at them through a chain-link fence. John goes very still, feels Sherlock do the same, but Jasmine’s already taking her knife and tossing it through a large hole in the fence, into the container on the other side, barely paying any attention to the weapons pointed at them.  
  
“Toss your weapons in there.”  
  
“I don’t think –”  
  
“The folks in charge here ain’t gonna care what you think.”  
  
John still hesitates, his gun solid and safe in his hand, glances around the room – they’re not the only ones here, and there are plenty of other people leaning up against the walls, not looking at each other – but then Sherlock’s muttering something unhappy and doing as instructed, tossing his gun and knives into the hole, and John grinds his teeth together as he does the same. Bites down the surge of vulnerability as he goes to stand beside Sherlock, who’s leaned up against the wall beside Jasmine, neither of them saying a word – and after a moment of silence, wherein nobody in the room seems keen to look at anybody else, John can’t quite deal with it anymore. Reaches across Sherlock and sticks out his hand for the woman to shake – because if she’s brought them this far, then there’s a good chance, at least, that he’s not shaking hands with a monster.  
  
“Jasmine.”  
  
“John.”  
  
“It’s your sister who’s in here?”  
  
John swallows, hard, and feels his knees go a bit weak, because if Harry _is_ here, if they’ve finally actually found her – manages a nod, at least, and the woman – Jasmine – smiles a bit at him.  
  
“Harry, right? She’s a damn firecracker. Saved a friend of mine last week. Amazing woman.”  
  
Again, all John can do is nod, and – embarrassingly – he can feel his eyes starting to burn. Looks away from Jasmine and Sherlock, drops his head and stares at the ground, and just concentrates on getting enough air, because – Harry. _Here_. It isn’t registering yet, it’s too much to take in – and then Sherlock’s hand is in his, fingers tangled up in between them, and John clings tight to it, lets Sherlock ground him. There’s a giant clock up on the wall – one of those old black and white giants – and that’s when he sees the giant sign plastered up beside the clock. A glance up at Sherlock shows him that Sherlock’s already long since started reading it, his expression pulling tight as he takes in the words.   
  
_Front Entrance Rules_  
  
 _1\. Toss your weapons through the first slot. No exceptions. You’ll get them back on the inside._  
  
 _2\. Everyone gets a number, and everyone must provide a blood sample. Put your arm through the second slot. If you suspect that you’ve been infected, tell us now, and we’ll figure out what to do from there._  
  
 _3\. If someone in this room starts to turn, everyone else needs to get on the floor immediately, so the folks behind these fences can get a clear shot. Do not get yourself caught in the crossfire._  
  
 _Si vous ne parlez pas anglais, dites-nous tout de suite._  
 _Si usted no habla Inglés, díganos inmediatamente._  
 _Wenn Sie nicht Englisch sprechen, erzählen Sie uns sofort._   
_Als u geen Engels spreekt, vertel dit dan onmiddellijk met ons op._  
あなたが英語を話せない場合は、すぐに私達に告げる。  
 _Se non si parla inglese, ci dicono subito._  
 _Eğer İngilizce bilmiyorsanız, hemen bize bildirin._  
如果你不會說英語，請立即通知我們。  
 _Jos et puhu Englanti, kerro meille välittömästi._  
 _Если вы не говорите по-английски, сообщите нам немедленно._  
 _Αν δεν μιλούν αγγλικά, να μας ενημερώσετε αμέσως._  
إذا كنت لا يتكلمون الإنجليزية، يقول لنا على الفور.  
  
– – – – – –   
  
“Wow. Guess they really want to make sure everyone knows the house rules.”  
  
His voice is a bit shaky, though, and Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s hand, moves in a bit closer to him. It makes sense, now, why nobody here wants to talk to anyone else, and John finds himself clinging to the comforting sound of Sherlock breathing beside him, as Jasmine sits down in a lone chair, and slides her arm through a hole in the fence. On the other side, there’s a young man, a container of needles beside him, and John watches as he carefully draws Jasmine’s blood, hands her a piece of paper with a number, and then labels the vial and puts it in another container, before he looks up to meet John’s eyes as Jasmine moves away. John hesitates for a moment, but the needles are packaged, at least, so he lets go of Sherlock’s hand and sits down, pausing for a moment longer before he slides his arm through, the young man not saying a word as he does the same as with Jasmine. John barely feels the needle – has a moment of being impressed by that, before his mind gets stuck on trying to figure out where the hell these people have even gotten clean needles to being with – and then the man gives him a number, and John nods and gets to his feet, standing back against the wall as Sherlock takes a seat. By the time Sherlock’s done, several numbers have been called and several people have been let in, and John ends up leaning against the wall with Sherlock pressed close to him on one side, and Jasmine silent on his other side, as the minutes start to slip by and nobody around them says a word.  
  
\- - -  
  
By the time their wait is up, several people have been let through the second set of doors, and several more have come through the main doors, and John has to admit that it makes sense. This waiting area might be a bit of a kill zone, but if it will keep infected people from getting past the wall, then John really can’t argue with that one – and when they’re finally let through the doors, he finally starts to breathe normally again. It’s started to rain, and the prison looks even more dilapidated with a haze of storm clouds hovering overhead, but they’re through the guardroom and they all have their weapons back, so John really has nothing to complain about it. Stays close to Sherlock as they follow Jasmine across the empty space – nothing but gravel and dirt – between the wall and the massive prison, and it’s only when they step up to the main doors that John feels something inside him starting to go to pieces again, because _Harry_ is in there. Can’t quite stop his hands from shaking as the two people guarding the door – one a woman with red hair, and one a woman with black hair, and both of them carrying guns that John would not like to be on the receiving end of – nod them through, and then Jasmine pushes the door open and –  
  
It’s a giant front room, filled with people and cots and smells and noise and weapons and, hell, there are even _dogs_ running around, and John goes dizzy, so much to take in, feels the room tilt a bit, can’t even imagine what it’s doing to Sherlock, hears him suck in a breath and reaches out to put a hand on Sherlock’s arm, so much colour and sound after months of – but _Harry_ , where is –  
  
“Hey. This way.”  
  
That’s Jasmine, tugging on the sleeve of his sweater, and he lets himself be tugged, follows her as she navigates through the swarms of people and beds and cooking stoves and backpacks, Sherlock keeping pace right beside him, and Harry, _where is_ – they come to the door of one of the prison cells, eventually, with an empty bunk and a clear floor, and – Jasmine pauses. Frowns at the cell, and then looks around, as though trying to figure out something that doesn’t make sense, and John can’t breathe, suddenly, the hallway is too small, because what if Harry isn’t –  
  
“Oi. Jasper. Any idea where Harry’s run off to?”  
  
Her voice is loud enough to be heard over the hum of people around them, and a head pops out from one of the other cells – a young man with a mane of hair down to his shoulders, and a tattoo across his collarbone – and he stares at Sherlock and John for a second before he frowns at Jasmine.  
  
“She’s gone. Took off this morning.”  
  
“What do you –”  
  
“We heard a rumour – something ’bout people digging their way out. Tried to convince her to stay, but –”  
  
John only realizes he’s leaning against the wall to stay upright when Sherlock’s suddenly there beside him, a hand on his elbow, saying his name, low and calm, over and over again, and John – pushes him away, at first, and then tugs him back, uses him to yank himself back upright again, the world still far too close around him, and that white haze threatening to creep back up on him again.  
  
“Where. You – Jasper. Where did – where is –”  
  
“Christ, I dunno. Charlie, though – she brought the news, thought it was bollocks; she might –”  
  
John spins on Jasmine, who’s already holding up her hands, the universal sign for surrender.  
  
“I’ll find Charlie. You just – keep him here, alright?”  
  
It’s directed at Sherlock, that last part, and Sherlock nods sharply, and then Jasmine’s gone, and Sherlock turns to John, puts both hands on his shoulders, and makes John meet his eyes again.  
  
“You’re not – John. You’re not breathing. You need to breathe, alright? In and out. Steady.”  
  
And John wants to pull away – wants to lash out, break his fists on the walls, wants to tear at something or someone until it falls apart under his hands, _they were so close_ – but Sherlock holds him there, hands tight on his shoulders, eyes locked on his, and John gradually realizes how hard he’s panting, realizes he’s shaking top to bottom, and – he makes himself breathe, somehow, as steady as he can, gradually realizing that Sherlock’s thumbs are moving in circles against his shoulders, his eyes never leaving John’s, pinning him in place as the world narrows around him.   
  
“We will do everything we can to find her.”  
  
It’s not a promise that they _will_ find her – he knows Sherlock better than that; knows damn well that Sherlock’s not going to make any promises he isn’t sure that he can keep – but it’s still better than nothing, Sherlock’s voice falling low and his eyes narrowing, and John feels himself nod, from a distance – needs Sherlock to be right, needs them to find her, because, god, _Harry­_ –   
  
“You’re John?”  
  
It’s a new voice, and John pulls himself free from Sherlock to face the woman standing beside them. She’s got red hair, and she’s got a rifle held in front of, and she’s wearing the most apologetic expression John’s seen in a long time, and, god, they need to be _gone_ already.  
  
“You’re –”  
  
“Yeah, I’m Charlie. And you’re –”  
  
“Yes. Harry – she’s my sister. Where did she –”  
  
“God, I’m _so_ sorry. I never should have said –”  
  
“But _where_ –”  
  
“They were – the rumour said that Chesham Station was the meeting point. That someone would periodically show up, and take people to the fence. Harry, and a few others – I tried to stop them, but –”  
  
“Perhaps you should have considered that before you said anything.”  
  
Charlie, John notices, distantly, doesn’t cringe or flinch under the venom in Sherlock’s voice – just shrugs somewhat helplessly, still looking apologetic, and – they need to be gone already. He only realizes he`s already turning to leave when Sherlock catches his arm, stops him from going.  
  
“Dammit, Sherlock –”  
  
“Come with me.”  
  
His voice is low, his grip on John barely enough to keep him there, and John – grits his teeth, and lets Sherlock tug him into the cell Harry had been staying in. Lets Sherlock pull him away from the crowd, because he trusts Sherlock to know what he’s doing, but god, _Chesham Station_ – it’s the best lead they’ve had yet, and John closes his eyes, _needs_ to go, needs to not be standing here, wasting time.  
  
“You should stay here, in case she comes back.”   
  
Sherlock’s voice seems to be far away, same as everyone else’s, and John – it takes him a second for the words to process. When they do, though, it’s with a horrible aching feeling in his gut, and he opens his eyes again and finds Sherlock still looking angry enough to start throwing punches.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“She’s less than a day ahead of us. If anyone can find her, I can.”  
  
He’s already pulling his coat a bit tighter around himself – not quite looking at John as he does so, his hands checking each of the buttons, and then sliding up to adjust the ragged scarf he’s still got wrapped around his neck – and John finds himself suddenly drowning under a wave of such love and affection it’s almost painful. Gapes for a moment, and then takes hold of Sherlock’s hands, holding them tight as Sherlock looks up at him, an obvious question in his expression.  
  
“John?”  
  
“You think I’d let you go out there on your own?”  
  
“We’re her best hope to get out of this city alive. If she returns and we’re both gone –”   
  
“Sherlock –”  
  
“Now that we know that she’s alive, one of us should stay where it’s safe. If something were to happen to both of us –”  
  
But John’s already shaking his head, because, god, no, they are not splitting up, end of story, period; and John is still trying to breathe over the crushing wave of affection and fondness, everything inside him still all tangled up in knots as he tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hands. For a moment, Sherlock just watches him, and then he squeezes back, nods, lips twitching up into something that could almost be a smile if not for how pained it looks – and then someone clears their throat from the doorway, and they turn to find Charlie standing there, grimacing a little.  
  
“Um, look. This is kind of indirectly my fault, so – not that I don’t think you two can handle yourselves, of course, but – want some help? I get that you probably, you know, hate me, but –”  
  
“You know your way around that weapon?”  
  
Sherlock’s voice is glacier cold – it would almost be amusing, if not for the reasoning behind why Sherlock seems to, indeed, have already decided to hate Charlie – but, instead of flinching, Charlie visibly bristles, straightening her back as most of her kicked dog expression slides away.  
  
“Wouldn’t be carrying it if I didn’t.”  
  
“Well, based on what we’ve seen, thus far, of your poor decision making skills –”  
  
“Lose the attitude, jackass. You get to hate me over Harry, sure, but that’s your full quota of bitchiness already met, and don’t think I’ll let you walk all over me just because I feel guilty.”   
  
And that – John feels his jaw actually drop, feels Sherlock go absolutely rigid beside him, but before either of them can say a word, Charlie shoots Sherlock another glare and turns to leave.  
  
“Front doors, ten minutes. I’ll see who else I can find for volunteers.”  
  
And then she’s gone. Just like that. And John – if not for how terrible this whole situation is, he might actually be finding some kind of dark humour in this, because how often does anyone stand up to Sherlock? As is, though, he simply puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm, and moves in a bit closer to him, not missing the way Sherlock is still glaring at the doorway at though Charlie’s still there.  
  
“Think we can do this without the two of you killing each other?”  
  
“That will depend on her.”  
  
He sounds like he’s chewing on nails, and John’s all over the place inside – stomach too tight, because, god, _Harry_ ; but he’s also still being half-smothered by that wave of affection from earlier – and he tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve until Sherlock turns to look at him, and then John rocks up on his toes and brushes their mouths together, holding fast to Sherlock’s shoulders for support until Sherlock relaxes against his, mouth going soft and gentle as John closes his eyes and takes in the comforting feeling of Sherlock so close to him. When he finally pulls away again, settling back down on his heels to stare up at Sherlock, he leaves a hand on Sherlock’s cheek, going all shaky inside at the sudden vulnerability in Sherlock’s eyes as he stares down at him. Even after all this time, John’s finding that Sherlock still often looks at him like he’s still surprised that he gets to touch, and it’s something that’s always going to make John’s heart hurt.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer, and then he nods against John’s hand, and John gives them another few seconds before he takes his hand away, picks up his backpack from the floor, and slides it over his shoulders. He’s already lost his sister once. He’s not going to lose her again.  
  
\- - -  
  
Ten minutes later, John and Sherlock are standing on the main prison steps with Charlie.   
  
Charlie and Sherlock, for their part, are silently glaring at each other, the air between them feeling like it’s ready to explode; and John is nearly scratching off his skin with the need to just _go_ already; but Charlie had promised him several more volunteers, and John would be a fool to turn down any extra guns for this mission – they need as many people as they can to cover as much ground as they can, need to get out there and start looking and, god, they _need_ to find her.  
  
“So this is the great Reichenbach duo, huh?”  
  
It’s not exactly condescending, but it’s not necessarily impressed, either, and John, Sherlock and Charlie all turn to find two men exiting the prison doors, joining them and Charlie on the steps. John can feel Sherlock bristle beside him, but he’s too busy studying the newcomers, who both have to be younger than him, if not by that much. They’re also both around Sherlock’s height, and they’re both wearing almost uncannily similar outfits – ragged jeans and what look like a couple of old band shirts, the _ACDC_ scrawl just partially visible underneath the ragged trench coat that the older guy’s got on – and then the younger guy sticks out his hand towards John, and John frowns as he hesitantly takes it, not quite sure what he’s meant to be getting out of this just yet.  
  
“Do we know you?”  
  
“The shelter started buzzing the minute you arrived. London’s great heroes, I hear.”  
  
“And who are you, then?”  
  
Sherlock’s voice is nearly as cold as his tone towards Charlie, but the younger guy – American, same as Charlie; and the only one of the newcomers who’s said a word thus far – doesn’t seem to be at all put off. Simply takes his hand back from John, sends a little smile in Charlie’s direction, and then tilts his head towards the guy standing in silence beside him, who seems keen on staring at them as though he can see straight through them.  
  
“I’m Dean. This is Cas. Charlie said your sister took off this morning, so – figured we’d help.”  
  
“And you both know how to fight?”  
  
“We cleaned out this prison all on our own. Us here, and two others. That good enough for you?”  
  
“If you’re telling the truth.”  
  
“Well, it’s not like you’ve got much choice in the matter. Seems to be us or going on your own.”  
  
Dean shrugs at that, and, god, John could actually learn to like these people – would really like Dean and Charlie, already, actually, and would quite appreciate their unwillingness to take bullshit, if not for the situation with Harry, and if not for the fact that their ire has all been directed at Sherlock – but John’s right about them not having any choice, and he knows Sherlock knows it, too, because Sherlock simply glares at Dean for a moment longer before he shrugs, too. There’s a moment, then, where they all just kind of glare at each other, the air thick between them – and then John exhales sharply, because _they do not have time for this¸_ and he turns in the direction of the prison guardroom, Sherlock keeping step beside him as he walks, the crunch of gravel as their three new allies follow close behind, and – yeah. This is going to be one tense trip


	3. Chapter 3

After that, it only takes a few hours for John to surmise that Dean is someone who, personal feelings notwithstanding, John would willingly follow into just about any battle.  
  
He’s smart, he’s a phenomenal shot, he’s amazing with a knife, he knows how to fight these creatures, he knows how to direct a group of people, he’s clever enough to figure out that they’ll navigate the city with greater ease if he lets Sherlock weigh in on their routes – and while John still spends most of the day feeling like he’s about to be in the middle of a full-out brawl between Sherlock and Dean, it’s pretty damn obvious that the combination of Sherlock’s and Dean’s knowledge works to get them safely through the city until the sun starts going down. There are a few monster attacks – only knives, thankfully; no guns or explosions or anything particularly clever – but the five of them are easily able to fight their way through, Charlie and Cas and Dean carving through the creatures like this is something they do every day – and, for all that John knows, it could be – and by the time they take shelter on the third floor of an apartment building, John is counting himself lucky that Charlie and Cas and Dean had offered to come with them.   
  
Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that they’re going to have to wait until morning to go any further – even though they’re close to Chesham Station – and John’s ready to scratch his skin off.   
  
“Pacing a hole through the floor won’t make this place more secure, you know.”  
  
Dean’s sitting on a chair in the corner, tilted back on two legs against the wall, gun on his lap and an almost pitying expression on his face, and John shoots him a glare before he keeps walking, doing his best to ignore everyone in the room. The window is boarded up, but there are enough cracks between the boards that they can rely on the dim moonlight to see by, and John’s eyes have long since adjusted. Charlie’s sitting on the grungy floor next to Dean, leaning up against the wall and polishing her knife, and Cas is staring out the window, gun held loosely in front of him, and Sherlock is keeping guard at the doorway, wrapped in his long coat and standing guard by the ragged couch that’s been pushed in front of the door, and John gets it, he does, gets that they can’t go any further tonight night, but _god,_ Harry is out there, and he needs to find her.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Cas’ voice is low and sharp – the first word he’s said, actually, since they left the prison – and his weapon is suddenly held a bit higher, and Dean goes very still, before he carefully, silently, lowers his chair back onto all four legs. Standing by the door, Sherlock’s already got his gun raised and ready, and John nearly jumps when there’s a hand on his arm – Charlie, he reminds himself – and then he’s keeping close to her, both of them moving towards the dim light that’s coming in through the window, until all of them save for Sherlock are peering out through the cracks at the large swarm of people who have gathered on the street. The moon isn’t completely full, but it’s still bright enough to see by, and John watches the group below them, distantly aware of Cas and Charlie on one side of him, and of Dean peering over his shoulder on the other.  
  
“Son of a bitch.”  
  
Dean breathes it low in the darkness, and John swallows, hard. That, there, is a large group of monsters – larger than any they’ve encountered so far – and while they don’t seem to be doing anything, at the moment – just seem to be congregating there – one false move, one flash of light or noise, could have them up the stairs and at the flat door in a dangerously short period of time.   
  
“Okay, then. We’re definitely keeping watch in pairs tonight. Cas, how ’bout you and Charlie –”   
  
Suddenly, though, Sherlock makes a low hissing sound from his spot by the door, and Dean falls silent. For a moment, there’s nothing – and then John hears it, too. The sound of footsteps in the hallway, way too fucking close, and he’s across the room and at Sherlock’s side as silently as he can be. Puts a hand on Sherlock’s arm, feels the way he’s nearly vibrating – and then Dean and Cas and Charlie are all there, too, spread out on either side of them, and John spares a moment to thank his eyes for starting to adjust, because that means he can see the way Dean raises his gun, looks at all of them, and then holsters it again, making an obvious movement of pulling out a knife instead. It’s enough to make John grind his teeth together, but he gets it – with that group outside, the last goddamn thing they need is gunfire – and he does the same, each of the others following suit, until all five of them are standing there in the darkness, perfectly still, knives out and ready, and the room completely silent save for their soft breathing. John isn’t sure how long they stand there – long enough for the footsteps and murmuring in the hallway to come and go, the area outside their apartment gradually falling silent again – but by the time Dean lowers his knife again, John is aching from holding the same position for so long, and his muscles scream out their protest as he finally lets himself relax, Dean breathing out slow and calm beside him.  
  
“I’ll take first watch with Sherlock. Everyone else get some rest.”  
  
For a moment, John thinks about protesting – he’s not quite sure that Sherlock and Dean won’t kill each other before their watch is up – but Sherlock puts a hand on his arm, gently squeezes before he lets go again, and John takes the hint. Sheathes his knife and turns to cross to his sleeping bag – and then he’s on the floor, hitting the old linoleum, hard, as something – an explosion? – has the room shaking, sending Cas to his knees, too, and knocking Charlie off her feet beside him. It’s over quickly, and then John’s scrambling to get upright again, clinging to a chair and pulling himself up as Dean spits out a series of curses and climbs up from where he’s hit the floor, too, and John somehow makes it back across the room to Sherlock, kneels down beside him, even as Dean scrambles across the room, pulling himself up to stare out the window.  
  
“Son of a _bitch_.”  
  
Dean’s voice is a hiss, distant in the background, because Sherlock, all John can care about it is – but Sherlock is holding on tight to his hand, up on his knees, suddenly, unhurt, and John feels himself shudder from the pure fucking relief, can’t tear his eyes from Sherlock for a moment – and then Charlie groans, and John spins towards her even as she raises a hand in his direction.  
  
“I’m fine, I’m – the others, are they –”  
  
“We might have a problem.”  
  
Dean’s voice sounds strained, and John takes a moment longer to stare at both Charlie and Sherlock, _god, he needs more light than this,_ before the two of them are gone, across the room to join Dean by the window – and John spins around, _where is_ _Cas,_ finds him sitting upright but looking dazed, shaken, his eyes bright and wide in the dim moonlight, and John grits his teeth together as he kneels down beside him – is about to start looking for injuries when Dean is suddenly there, not quite pushing John out of the way, but not exactly making any apologies for his presence, either, and John – feels his chest tighten painfully as Dean leans in towards Cas and puts a hand on his cheek, gently turns Cas’ head so that they’re staring at each other, Dean’s face suddenly sliding into the most concerned expression John’s ever seen on the guy, and – wow. John is pretty sure he’s been seeing without observing again, because how the hell did he miss this?  
  
“Hey. C’mon, Cas – talk to me. You good?”  
  
“I – Dean –”  
  
“C’mon, man, what hurts?”  
  
“I – everything, but – I think – I believe I am just bruised – I –”  
  
“Unless something’s bleeding or broken –”  
  
Cas shakes his head at that, but he still looking more than a bit stunned, looks unsure even as he shakes his head, and Dean stares at him for a moment longer before he sighs and drops his hand to Cas’ shoulder for a moment, and then pulls away completely, turning to John as he does so.  
  
“Army doctor, right?”  
  
“I – yes.”  
  
“Look him over for me?”  
  
“I – of course, but what –”  
  
“Croats are blowing up buildings. The apartment across the street’s all but gone.”  
  
“Jesus.”  
  
“Yeah. But we gotta sit tight. We go out there, we’re finished.”  
  
John nods his agreement – tries to not think about the fact that they’re on the fifth floor of a building, with monsters using bombs just on the other side of the street – and takes a final look at where Dean has moved to join Sherlock and Charlie at the window, before he turns back to Cas, who seems to be looking a bit less dazed, thought his eyes are still wide as he stares at John.  
  
“I’m gonna take the coat off. Alright?”  
  
“I – I believe I am fine. I was just – shocked.”  
  
“Perhaps, but – I’d feel a lot better –”  
  
But Cas shakes his head sharply – suddenly stubborn, apparently – and John fights the urge to try to stop him as Cas pushes himself up onto his knees, and then stumbles up to his feet again, John rising with him, ready to catch him should he fall again. There’s a moment when he thinks that he will – Cas wavers for a second, visibly unsteady – and then he makes a frustrated sound and seems to square his shoulders and plant his feet more solidly beneath him, his face creasing into a scowl as he reaches out to put a hand on John’s shoulder, using him to stay completely upright.  
  
“I hate this body.”  
  
And that – that, there, is so completely unexpected that, for a long moment, John can do nothing but stare. Puts a steadying hand under Cas’ elbow, at least, even as he tries to figure out what the hell Cas means by that – but then Cas is pushing himself away, standing on his own, and all John can do is blink as Cas scowls a little harder and crosses the room, still visibly shaky, to where Dean is. Stands under his own power for a moment before he leans against Dean, and Dean’s arm sneaks behind him to wrap around his waist, holding him steady – and John swallows, hard, and wonders, again, how he missed it with the two of them. Wonders what the hell Cas had meant, and wonders who the hell these people are, even, and wonders, for a moment, how he and Sherlock ever even ended up here in the first place. How this insanity ever became their lives.  
  
“So what do we do, then?”  
  
Charlie’s voice is barely audible, even in the silent room, and, from where he’s still standing in the middle of the room, John watches as Dean stares at her for a moment, and then glances sidelong at Cas, who’s still shaky and unsteady and pressed up close against him, and then turns back to the window, the sound of a cheering and hooting making it up from the street below.  
  
“We stay put. You and I take first watch. The rest of you – get some sleep, alright? If we’re going to that damn subway tomorrow, then we’ve all gotta be as rested as we possibly can be.”  
  
Dean’s voice seems to slide into exhausted, even as he says it, and John swallows hard, and tries to not think of Harry, out there, somewhere, with those monsters crawling around on the streets below. Glances down at his sleeping bag – knows damn well that he’s way too wired to think of sleeping – but then Sherlock’s moved to stand beside him, close and warm in the dim light, and when a hand closes around his wrist, John lets himself be tugged until he’s on the floor and sliding into the sleeping bag, Sherlock doing the same with his, and then pressing up against him, arms sliding around him from behind to pull him in close against Sherlock’s chest. John goes still for a moment – hadn’t expected such obvious affection, given that they’re not alone in the room – but Sherlock just tightens his grip, gently pulling him closer, and John feels himself start to relax, even as something inside him begins to ache in a way that has nothing to do with Harry being missing, and everything to do with the man pressed up against him. Here they are, trapped in yet another shit flat in the middle of an infested city, and Sherlock shouldn’t even be here.  
  
“Stop thinking.”  
  
“This from you?”  
  
“You need to rest.”  
  
“Again, from the man who deems sleep to be a waste of –”  
  
“The better rested you are, the greater the chances of finding your sister.”   
  
It’s still not a promise that they will, in fact, find her, but John hears the truth there – knows that Sherlock is right – and he manages a nod, before closing his eyes and doing his best to ignore the sound of whooping and hollering that’s making its way up from the streets below. The horrible sounds are enough to get all twisted up inside him, and he pushes himself closer to Sherlock, closes his eyes a bit tighter, and takes whatever comfort he can from the sound and feel of Sherlock breathing against him, as Sherlock tightens his arms around him and just holds on tight.  
  
\- - -  
  
The next morning, by the time they’ve snuck out of the flat – the streets had mercifully emptied sometime around dawn – and made it to within viewing distance of the station, it’s pouring rain, and John is soaked straight through. Silently curses his useless cardigan, and then blinks through the water as Dean presses up against the brick wall beside him, looking just as soaked and miserable.  
  
“Alright. What’s she even look like, anyway?”  
  
Dean’s voice is low beneath the pounding of the rain, and John glances around to make sure that everyone is within hearing distance. Sherlock’s right beside him, of course, and Charlie and Cas are next in line, their weapons ready and their expressions set, even in the driving rain, and John feels an unexpected wave of fondness sweep through him; a sudden surge of gratitude that makes his throat too tight. Has to swallow hard and clear his throat before he can make words happen.  
  
“About as tall as Charlie. Brown eyes, brown curls. Broad shoulders, a few freckles – um –”  
  
“I was on duty when she left. She was wearing a black jacket and blue jeans.”  
  
Charlie’s voice cuts in, sounding almost a little hopeful, and John feels his mouth twitch a smile in her direction, because – yeah, that’s definitely good information to have. She smiles back at him, hesitantly – and, god, it’s not her fault that Harry is here, not really; and John needs to keep that in mind, needs to find Harry first and then make peace with Charlie afterwards – and then Dean’s nodding beside him, and raising his knife a bit higher, eyes going to the station entrance. There are no monsters in the space between them and the doors, thankfully, and while John knows that it’s probably futile to hope that the station is deserted, too, it’s still a rather nice idea  
  
“Alright. Keep it quiet. No guns, unless absolutely necessary, and no breaking formation, period. We stick together, end of story, no matter what happens. If one of us goes down, we all stop –”   
  
“You say that as though it’s something you actually have to say.”  
  
“Yeah, well –”  
  
“Come on, Dean. All the Croats in the world couldn’t drag you and Cas apart, and I’m guessing that Sherlock and John here aren’t going anywhere without each other, so. You really think I’d leave your sorry ass behind?”  
  
“I’ll have you know that there’s nothing sorry about my ass.”  
  
Dean’s voice sounds a little bit unsteady, though, for all that he and Charlie are suddenly grinning at each other through the rain, and John breathes through that wave of fondness again. Finds himself leaning back against Sherlock, for a moment – feels Sherlock press a soft kiss against the back of his neck, warm and comforting in the cold rain, and more than enough to make John go all shaky inside – and then Dean’s expression settles again, and he makes eye contact with each of them before he speaks, tightening his grip on the large knife in his hand.  
  
“Alright. Charlie up front with me, Cas in the middle, and John and Sherlock at the back. We check the station first, and if she’s not there, then we start banging down nearby doors. Deal?”  
  
John nods – is aware of everyone else doing the same – and then Dean turns back to the station, and Charlie slides around John to stand beside Dean, even as Cas switches places with John and Sherlock, putting them at the rear and himself in the middle – and then Dean visibly steadies himself, takes a deep breath, and moves away from the building. They’re not moving at a run, exactly – which John is thankful for, as he has no desire to run headlong into a nest of monsters – but it’s a damn close thing, and they make it to the doors quickly enough, not encountering any resistance along the way. Dean and Charlie go in first, after Dean peers through one of the broken windows, and John and Sherlock watch the area behind them until they’re all inside, and –   
  
Wow.   
  
Whatever had once existed of the station, there’s barely anything left now. The building is crumbling – literally, the walls are falling down, and several pillars have smashed to the floor – and there’s an old vending machine lying on its side, crumpled there in a way that looks almost sad. On the far side of the room, where the escalators were once located, there’s a giant hole in the floor – and, as far as John can see, the entire upper level seems to be deserted. It’s unexpected enough to make him frown – it’s not like he wants to be fighting monsters, but they should have hit some kind of resistance by now – and when he glances over at Sherlock, it’s to find him looking just as perplexed. Nobody says a word, though – they simply follow Dean as he hesitates at the door, and then leads them along the wall to where the escalators once were – and then they’re staring down at the dark lower level, still accessible by the twisted remains of an old staircase; and of all the crazy ideas that John has contemplated lately, the notion of going down into the darkness of an old tube station is pretty high up there on the list of potentially bad plans.  
  
“Alright, mister genius. Got any plans beyond just charging straight in?”  
  
Dean’s voice is barely audible, even in the silent room, his knife raised a little higher in his hand as he peers down the stairs, and Sherlock scowls at the entire situation for a moment, his eyes sweeping across the remains of the station, before he goes back to contemplating the broken stairs.  
  
“I dislike this.”  
  
“Nobody likes it, buddy. So if you’ve got any brilliant ideas in that noggin of yours –”  
  
“John and I go alone. You three stand guard here. I want to know that we have an exit.”  
  
“You really sure that’s a good –”  
  
“I have no desire to end up trapped on both ends.”  
  
“Fair enough, but –”  
  
“Dean.”  
  
Cas’ voice is sharp from the building entrance, and everyone spins to face him as he seems to hesitate, for a moment, before he slowly takes a few steps away from the doorway, frowning, his gun firmly fixed on the crumbling entrance, and then – everything inside John freezes. Because Harry is hesitantly stepping through the doorway, soaking wet, blinking through the rain, covered in blood and dirt and bruises, with her hair everywhere and her eyes wide and _alive_ –  
  
John only realizes he’s jumped forward when someone – Sherlock, his voice sharp in John’s ear – grabs him, holds him back, and the only reason Sherlock’s nose isn’t broken is because John loves him. Snarls out something, at least, but Sherlock doesn’t let him go, and then Dean is there, holding his other arm, and John – makes himself go still, somehow, as much as he wants to claw at them both, because awareness is settling back in, and – Cas is standing even further away from Harry, now, still frowning, gun still trained on her, and there’s a reason for that, but John _hates_ it.  
  
“You can’t – John, we need to get her back, and test her blood – alright? Until then you can’t –”   
  
John makes a noise he barely recognizes, but Sherlock must understand, somehow, because he lets go, Dean following suit more hesitantly – and John yanks himself away, seething, knowing he shouldn’t be, can’t help it, his eyes meeting Harry’s across the station and – god. His vision is damp, blurry around the edges, and it takes everything he has to keep his feet where they are. Can’t even manage to make words happen, just stares at Harry, until Harry takes a step closer, and John feels both Dean and Sherlock go tense beside him, and he holds up his hands, Harry going still again – the entire room seeming to go still until John somehow chokes out the words.  
  
“Hi, Harry.”  
  
For a moment, she just stares, still wide-eyed. Then, her expression seems to crumple a bit, and she lets out a gasping noise, rubbing a hand over her face for a moment before she seems to get herself together, her smile shaky and her eyes shiny with tears as she stares right back at him.   
  
“Hi.”  
  
And just – there is nothing more that John can seem to say. Makes another noise he doesn`t recognize, and then just gives up on speaking. Concentrates on keeping his knees locked underneath him. Everything’s too tight inside him and the world is too bright and all he can see is Harry, who smiles at him some more, bright and beautiful, and John actually cannot breathe.  
  
“Touching as this all is, we gotta get somewhere safe.”   
  
Dean’s voice is gruff, seems to come from far away – all John can see is Harry, smiling at him from across the room – but he does catch the way Sherlock nods his agreement, and then –  
  
By the time John figures out the roof’s caved in, he’s already on his knees, and someone’s on top of him, shrieking and laughing and clawing at him. He tries to breathe, tries to twist away – can’t move; his attacker is much too heavy – and his knife is gone, his fingers are empty, and he can’t reach his gun – rears his head back and nearly knocks himself out when he makes contact, but there’s a crack that comes from bone breaking somewhere above him, and while his attacker is screaming, John’s able to squirm forward. Gets his hand around a chunk of concrete and spins onto his back, swings his arm with all the force he has, and sends the creature slumping sideways when the concrete makes contact with its temple. For a second, all he can do is gasp for air – and then he’s pushing the motionless body off and scrambling up to his knees. Dean and Charlie are back to back, their knives and bodies both covered in blood, and Sherlock is – two of the creatures are holding him, keeping him in place, and a third is landing punches, laughing and shrieking, and John scrambles to grab his knife from the floor, sinks it into the third monster before he realizes he’s moved. Aims right for a lung, sends the creature crashing to the ground, and then jumps back as one of the others leaps at him, yelling – but it’s one-on-one for both him and Sherlock, now, and John can’t ask for much more than that. Keeps out of reach as best as he can, until the creature slips on a piece of stone, and then John slashes its throat. Sends it down just in time to see Sherlock helping Charlie and Dean dispatch of a last few monsters and –  
  
 _Harry._  
  
The entrance is covered in chunks of concrete, the ceiling above blown out above the doorway area – and Cas and Harry are both surrounded by monsters, Harry shoved against a wall, her fists flying, and Cas a flurry of trench coat as he slices his way through the creatures, and John makes it across the room in seconds. Things blur out after that – stabbing, punching, kicking; whatever it takes – until he’s at Harry’s side, and she’s somehow gotten out her own knife, and they end up fighting nearly shoulder to shoulder. By the time all the creatures are dead, lying on the floor around them, John is panting, Harry’s holding herself up on his arm, Cas is leaning against the wall, Dean and Charlie are leaning on each other, Sherlock’s got that manic glow he always gets after emerging victorious against some dangerous foe, and every single one of them is covered in blood. For a moment, they all just stare at each other, panting and wide-eyed – and then there’s a shriek from the dark lower floor, and Dean’s hissing out a curse and bolting towards a side door.  
  
“Come on!”  
  
He barely yells it before he’s gone, Cas and Charlie tearing off after him, leaving Harry and Sherlock and John to do the same, a mad dash out into the rain – and John can hear the whoops and hollers starting up behind them, but he doesn’t dare turn to look. Takes hold of Harry’s hand – holds on tight to his knife with the other – and just runs for it, following Dean through the rain, Sherlock at his other side. The streets are soaked, and their footing is uneven, and the rain is damn near blinding – and John isn’t sure how long they run before Dean skids to a halt in front of them, in the middle of an intersection, looking every which way, even as Sherlock all but crashes into him, grabbing his arm and pulling when Dean tries to go left. Dean, to his credit, barely hesitates – simply stares at Sherlock through the rain, and then nods, even though it looks like his teeth are damn near grinding together – and John immediately breathes a bit easier when Sherlock slides into the lead. If anyone can get them somewhere safe alive, it’ll be Sherlock.  
  
Time blurs out a bit, after that. John isn’t sure how long they run, knows his lungs are starting to ache, throat tasting of blood, by the time Sherlock veers into an alley, takes them off the main road and leaves everyone gasping for air as Sherlock skids to a stop and looks around him. For a second, nobody moves – and then Sherlock’s damn near climbing on top of a giant dumpster, Charlie and Dean right behind him, the three of them yanking it back with a screeching sound that makes John wince. He doesn’t have time to care, though – Dean and Charlie and Cas are already moving, scrambling over the edge and inside, and John waits until Harry’s in, too, before he follows, Sherlock sliding in last, everyone helping to lower the lid as silently as they can –   
  
And then there’s nothing but the agonizingly loud sound of the rain against the metal above them. There are enough holes in the dumpster that some light can get in – they can see each other, at least, all pressed up against each other with barely enough room to breathe – but the bags of garbage are probably old enough to have things growing in them, and the stench is enough to bring John’s stomach up into his throat. He bites down hard against the rise of bile, holds his knife a little tighter, and squeezes past Harry to where Sherlock has an eye pressed against a hole in the dumpster. Wants to ask, but doesn’t dare speak. Waits until Sherlock looks at him and moves back, and John puts his eye against the hole, sucking in a deep breath – something he immediately regrets, when he gags on it – at the sight of the swarm that’s running past the alley entrance. There are dozens of them, easily, and John stays there until a good two minutes after the last one’s passed, before he pulls away and turns to face everyone. Charlie`s even paler than normal, and Dean’s looking angry enough to chew glass, and Harry’s wide-eyed in the dim light, and Cas is slumped against the garbage bags, eyes closed, looking exhausted –   
  
But they’re alive. They’re all still alive, somehow, and Harry – Harry is alive and real and right in front of him, and nobody tries to stop him, this time, when he scrambles back across the dumpster; can’t breathe, yanks her in close, his throat going tight and scratchy at her disbelieving laugh, shaky in his ear, as she squeezes him tight; so tight he can’t get enough air into his lungs. Distantly, he can hear Sherlock and Dean talking, but it barely registers, everything around him just sliding away – holds on as tight as he can, and only lets go again when Harry’s no longer shaking, and when John can almost breathe again, and when the rain’s coming lighter against the metal above them. Holds her at arm’s length, though, and just kneels there and stares at her, takes in the bruises and the blood and dirty, still can’t seem to speak as she stares at him wide-eyed, her cheeks streaked with tears – until Dean stirs in his corner, sliding up onto his knees.  
  
“Alright. That should be long enough. We need to keep moving.”  
  
The words are still distant, though, until Harry squeezes his hand and nods at him, sucking in a shaky breath and managing to smile through her tears, even as Sherlock checks the hole in the dumpster one last time and Dean and Charlie push the lid up again; and then Harry climbs to her feet, tugging him up with her, and all of them slide out into the rain, standing there in the alley and all of them covered in blood and mud, reeking from the dumpster and already soaked straight through again. They’re still upright, though, and John has both Harry and Sherlock alive and in the same place, and he steadies his grip on his knife, meets Sherlock’s eyes for a moment, takes a world of comfort from that quick glance; and then he takes Harry’s hand again, and follows in silence as Sherlock pulls his coat tighter around him and leads them all back into the rain.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time they make it back to the prison, the sun’s gone down, and John’s tired down to his bones.   
  
Harry and Cas both fall asleep while they’re waiting for their blood results in the quarantine area, Cas leaning up against the wall precariously, head tilted back against the concrete, and Harry’s head coming to rest on John’s shoulder; and Charlie dozes for a while before muttering a curse and starting to pace, yawning the entire time. John, for his part, sits close to Sherlock and makes himself keep his eyes open – doesn’t like being this close to the outside world without his gun – and Sherlock nearly fidgets himself to pieces during the wait, hissing out curses or muttering to himself. Of all of them, though, Dean’s the most restless – talks to the people behind the fence, or joins Charlie in her pacing, or sits and stares at nothing for a while before he’s back on his feet again – and John watches him for a bit, still trying to get a read on him. Still wondering when and how any of these people have even ended up in this city, and at this shelter, in the first place.  
  
Eventually, though, they’re let in, and they all go straight to their beds. Cas and Dean and Charlie go to their own quarters, presumably, and Harry and Sherlock and John stumble back to the cell Harry had had before, John and her both of them curling up on the bottom bunk as Sherlock dumps their stuff on the cell floor and them climbs on to the top bunk, none of them even bothering to strip off their boots or their dirty clothes. John barely has the energy to pull the thin blanket up over them before his eyes are sliding shut, the world fading away for a while.  
  
\- - -  
  
When John wakes up again, Harry’s sitting against the wall, arms around her knees and her eyes closed. She’s found clean clothes, at least, and she’s no longer covered in dirt and blood, her hair clean and damp and her skin clear – and John watches her for a moment before he deliberately shifts on the bed and she opens her eyes to stare at him. For a moment, Harry simply watches him – and then she looks away, eyes dropping down and her hands coming to rest in her lap.   
  
“The other two I was with – they rushed in. I wasn’t sure it wasn’t all bollocks, so I made camp in a flat nearby. Wanted to keep an eye on the place for a while. Watched them get torn apart.”  
  
“Harry –”  
  
“You shouldn’t have come back for me.”   
  
Her voice is low, and it’s said like she actually believes it, and John bites down against the wave of regret – because how could they have ever reached the point where she would actually think that? – as he pushes himself up on his elbows, hating the guilt he can see written across her face.   
  
“You think I’d have left you here?”  
  
“I’ve made your life hell. For years, that’s all I’ve –”  
  
“Yeah, well, there’s stupid squabbling and there’s letting you get eaten by monsters, and forgive me if the latter one just wasn’t on.”  
  
It’s a bit harsher than he had intended, his voice low and sharp in the otherwise silent cell, but it must get the point across, at least a little bit, because Harry stares at him for a moment before she nods and climbs to her feet, holding out a hand to help him do the same, pulling him upright out of the small bunk.   
  
“Yeah, well. I owe you, big brother.”  
  
“Yes, well. Direct me to wherever you found a shower, and we’ll call it even.”  
  
That gets a genuine smile out of her, amazingly, and then she takes his hand, and tugs him into the hallway, holding on tight as they squeeze back into the swarm of people outside their cell.  
  
\- - -  
  
It’s a massive prison, once he gets the chance to explore it, and one quick wander around has John boggling at the resourcefulness of it all.   
  
In addition to the front room – where people appear to have set up their cots wherever they can find space – there’s a hallway that leads straight through to the main office at the back of the prison, where the people in charge of the prison have reportedly set up their headquarters; and there are six separate cell blocks that branch off from that hallway, along with a washroom and an infirmary. People have set up their sleeping spaces all throughout the cell blocks, too; and while he’s not quite sure what the folks in charge have done to get the electricity working – something to do with being near the river, he’s sure, and he’d be willing to bet that a prison of this size would have one hell of a back-up generator – there are actual working lights and toilets and showers; and he does his best to push away any lingering concerns about contamination, because it’s obvious that nobody in the shelter is turning, so the people in charge must have figured out a way to purify the water. There’s also an entire area of the prison that’s been turned into some kind of kitchen space, and there must be regular trips into the city to get hold of resources, because there’s always food to cook and clean water to drink; and while John’s not sure how long a project on this scale can hold out – the shelter seems to be home to at least two hundred people, from the rough count he’s done – for now he’s going to just be grateful for it. Gets the tour from Harry, and then strips out of his old clothes, shoves them into a garbage bin in the washroom – Harry had found him a towel, and he’d rather wander around in just that for days than put on his old clothes again – and then slides into one of the shower stalls, turns on the hot water, steps beneath it – and then damn near cries with how good it feels. Leans against the wall until the gratitude stops threatening to take his knees out from underneath him, and then he scrubs and soaps until he’s damn near rubbed himself raw. Stays underneath all that fucking beautiful hot water, lets it seep into his skin, for as long as he thinks he can get away with – and then finds himself blinking with confusion when he slides out of the shower, wraps himself in a towel, and finds himself staring a new pile of clothes, sitting on a bench beside his stall. There are jeans with only a few holes in them, and a new white cardigan – one that looks like it will fit him perfectly – along with some dark blue boxers that are even still in their packaging, and – he looks up to find Sherlock leaning against the bathroom door, which has been closed behind him.  
  
“I took the liberty of finding you some new clothes.”  
  
And – christ. Sherlock’s old outfit is gone – even the coat and the scarf are missing, though John doesn’t doubt that the coat is still around somewhere, because no apocalypse could ever pull Sherlock away from that thing – and he’s wearing ripped-up old blue jeans with a dark purple sweater, his skin clear of blood and dirt and his curls hanging limp and damp around his face – and it’s the cleanest, most put-together John’s seen him in months, and the sight hits him like a punch. There’s something more than just a shower and a new outfit here, too – there’s a calmer expression to his face, somehow; he just looks a bit more settled, looks less like he’s ready to start climbing up the walls; and when Sherlock moves in close and tugs John against him – wraps his arms around him tight, and holds him there as John buries his face into his shoulder – John can’t even care that he’s standing in a cool bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist. Can’t care about anything more than the man he’s wrapped up around. Holds on tight to Sherlock and gradually starts to process the fact that, by some wonderful miracle, they’ve managed to find Harry – they don’t have to stay in London anymore – they can finally _leave_.  
  
“We – christ, Sherlock. We did it.”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“We found her. Jesus christ, we found her, and now –”  
  
“We can establish a viable plan to circumvent that fence –”  
  
“– and get the hell out of this city. Get back to Mycroft’s compound –”  
  
“I can keep working on the blood samples. Find a cure. And you –”  
  
“I’ll guard the walls. Be the doctor. Whatever they need. And you’ll have things to distract you –”  
  
“And we’ll have our own little room, just the two of us, with all the running water we need.”   
  
Sherlock smiles into his hair as he says it, and John can’t help but smile back, holds on a little tighter – and then a hand slides down his spine, fingers pressing soft across his damp skin, and John feels heat swoop through him, the likes of which he hasn’t felt in far too long. Sucks in a sharp breath, feels his heart skip up to a faster beat, slamming inside his chest – and then Sherlock’s fingers flatten, his entire hand sliding warm along John’s lower back, and John squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of need, because, christ, it’s been far too long, but –  
  
“Sherlock. Public washroom.”  
  
“I hadn’t noticed.”  
  
 _“Sherlock –”_  
  
“I don’t care.”  
  
“Yes, well – I do, so –”  
  
“Do you, now?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“So if I do this –”  
  
 _“Sherlock.”_  
  
His voice comes out a hell of a lot breathier than he’d like, though, because Sherlock’s fingers are massaging circles against his hipbone – of all the places to get him riled up, _goddammit_ – and Sherlock’s mouth has slid down to press warm and damp against his neck, sliding across the skin below his ear, and John is – shivering, and not from the chill of the room. Knees gone weak underneath him, already, but, christ, they’re in the bloody bathroom of an old prison, and this is – not going to work. Just manages to bite down a groan as he pulls away, gets his hands on Sherlock’s arms and puts some space in between them, raises his eyes to meet Sherlock’s – and, yes, he’d expected Sherlock to be smirking, to look cocky and satisfied and pleased with himself, but there’s still a naked affection to the expression that feels like being punched, and John has to swallow before he speaks, his chest suddenly aching and his stomach all tangled up in knots.  
  
“Christ, Sherlock, just – tonight, alright? We can – tonight. We can come back here. Okay?”  
  
Sherlock just watches him for a moment longer, before he presses a gentle hand against John’s cheek and leans in close to brush their lips together, a barely there, painfully gentle touch that John feels straight through him – and then he pulls back, smiles slightly at John, and turns and leaves the room, taking half the air with him, and leaving John standing there, still shivering in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. For a moment, all he can do is stare at the empty doorway, and then he closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath, and picks up his new clothing, suddenly and desperately reminded of why, exactly, they need to get out of this city, and find somewhere safe to ride out whatever’s left of the world. All other reasons aside, John wants to spend as many years as they possibly can having Sherlock look at him like that, and the only way that’s going to happen is if they find a way past that fence, and out of London, once and for all.  
  
\- - -  
  
After that, John takes to wandering the shelter a bit more – Harry’s napping, and John would quite like to find Dean and Cas and Charlie again, and thank them for their help – and it only takes him about an hour to find Charlie, at least.   
  
The main entrance room is teeming with people, all either sleeping or making food or talking to each other or playing with the dogs John can see running around, and Charlie’s back at her post at the prison doors, standing guard with a rifle in her hands, a knife on one hip, and a smaller gun on the other. The smile she gives him seems completely sincere, too, and he surprises himself when he can’t help but smile back.   
  
“Hey, John. Good to see you. You and Sherlock all rested up?”  
  
“Getting there.”  
  
“Yeah, well – let me know if you ever get bored and fancy a go at this guard duty thing. You’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen.”  
  
She’s still smiling at him, bright and genuine despite their rocky start, and John can’t quite stop the flush of pleasure. He’s not a vain man by any stretch, but Charlie’s rather fantastic with a gun, herself, and he won’t pretend that the compliment means nothing. Simply smiles a bit more.  
  
“Well, I appreciate that. And I – just – I wanted to thank you. For everything. For –”  
  
“Oh, god – it was the least I could do. Considering I’m the reason Harry was out there at all –”  
  
“No, it’s – you didn’t send her out there. I shouldn’t have – it wasn’t your fault.”  
  
“Yeah, well – either way, I’m glad she’s back.”  
  
She gives him yet another of those small slightly wincing smiles she seems to favour, and John just smiles back for a moment – would shake her hand, if not for the rifle she’s busy holding – before he glances around the main room, eyes scanning across the countless people wandering around – and has a sudden thought, something that’s been perplexing him since he first arrived.  
  
“Hey, I wanted to ask – the quarantine. Where did you find all the needles and –”  
  
“The infirmary. It was surprisingly well stocked, when we got here. A working microscope, even, and enough needles to last for a while, at least.”  
  
She seems to say it as evenly as she can, but John hears the unspoken words there – understands, suddenly, that there’s no way this shelter can be an infinite project. If the only way to test for the virus is a blood sample, then, soon enough, the needles will run out, and nobody new will be able to get into the prison – and anyone who leaves won’t be able to get back in. It’s not a pleasant thought, at all, and John pushes down the nausea and forces a bit of a smile, not liking the way Charlie’s looking so sad.  
  
“Well, lucky for us, then. Oh, and, also – Dean and Cas. Any chance you might know where –”  
  
“Main office, probably. Back past the infirmary. They tend to lurk there.”  
  
“But – isn’t that –”  
  
“Christ – didn’t we tell you? Dean runs this joint, along with Sam – his brother. You met him yet?”  
  
She says it like it’s nothing, casual and easy, but all John can do is shake his head, suddenly speechless. He’s always admired a leader who’s willing to put themselves on the frontlines, and the idea that Dean had chosen to come on that mission to find Harry, when he certainly hadn’t needed to – well. It just ramps John’s respect for him up another notch, and he’s so busy trying to process the idea that he almost misses the shrug Charlie gives him.  
  
“Well, you will soon, I’m sure. Kevin, too – friend of ours.  In fact, they’re probably all in the main office – let me know if you can’t find them, though, alright? And I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
“Thanks, Charlie.”  
  
He gets his voice to work, and she gives him another smile before turning back to the main doors, and John makes his feet take him in the other direction, weaving through the swarms of kids and dogs that are running around at knee-level. Does his best to get his thoughts in order – tries to reconcile the idea of Dean being one of the folks in charge of this whole damn shelter – and makes his way down the hallway to the back of the prison to the main office, where he hesitates only a moment before knocking. After a few seconds of nothing, the door swings open to reveal one of the tallest men John’s ever seen, with long hair and shoulders so broad they’re probably twice as wide as John’s. He’s smiling, at least, even though it’s a bit confused looking.  
  
“Hey. Something I can help you with?”  
  
“I – perhaps. Are you – Sam, by chance?”  
  
“I – yeah. And you’re –”  
  
“John Watson. I was just looking for Dean and Cas. Charlie said –”  
  
“Oh, yeah, no problem, Dean said – yeah, come on in. Good to meet you.”  
  
He sticks out a massive hand, at that, smiling a little bit wider, and John shakes it and then follows him inside, to find a room filled with sterile metal furniture and some old framed certificates. It’s definitely the office of a prison – nothing warm and welcoming about it – and the giant map on the wall – the entire city of London, but covered with red and black scribbles and markings, notes and arrows all over it – is about the only thing that makes it interesting.   
  
“Are you –”  
  
“Yeah. Trying to find a way out of this damn city.”  
  
“And not having much goddamn luck of it.”  
  
Dean enters the room from a side door, scowling a bit as he says it, before he sets a rifle down on one of the desks and perches on the edge of it, glaring up at the map as though it will suddenly give him the answers he’s looking for, and John surprises himself with a sudden surge of fondness for him. Manages a small smile, even though he’s pretty sure it ends up looking pained.  
  
“Sherlock and I are doing the same. If we figure anything out –”  
  
“If you two can figure something out, I’ll take back every bad thing I ever said or thought about that boyfriend of yours. From everything we can tell, the army’s got this place on lockdown.”  
  
And there is really nothing John can say that would possibly make the truth of that statement any less horrible. Watches Dean glare at the map for a moment – and then takes a step closer and sticks his hand out, Dean frowning at him as he shakes it, as though John’s done something odd.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I just wanted to thank you. For everything. You didn’t have to –”  
  
“Oh, hell – no worries. Saving people’s kind of what we do. It was no –”  
  
And then, out of nowhere, Sam starts to cough, a loud, horrid sound the likes of which John hasn’t heard from a patient in years, and he spins back around to find Sam clutching at one of the desks, raising a hand for space as Dean jumps to his feet and moves closer, hands up as though to help.  
  
“Dammit, Sammy –”  
  
“I – hell. I’m fine, just –”  
  
“You’re _not_ –”  
  
Sam cuts him off with a new round of coughing, suddenly looking far more fragile than anyone of his size should ever be able to look, and John’s got red flags going up everywhere. Moves in a bit closer – because this, at least, he might be able to help with, even if he can’t provide some miracle route out of the city.  
  
“Perhaps I could –”  
  
“You can’t help him.”  
  
“But –”  
  
“Modern medicine’s worth jack shit to us, right now. Now was there anything else you needed?”  
  
Dean’s barely looking at him – has a hand on Sam’s shoulder, scowling at Sam’s attempt to wave him away – and John wavers for a moment, debates arguing some more, before he decides to give them some space. He can always try to talk to Sam later, when Dean’s no longer around.  
  
“I – Cas. I wanted to –”  
  
“Probably outside. He doesn’t like being cooped up.”  
  
Dean’s still not looking at him – though Sam has stopped coughing, at least – and John takes that as his cue. Nods his thanks and exits through the office door, leaving them alone – because whatever Sam is dealing with, it’s obvious that neither of them is keen for a doctor’s help, and he’s going to have to find some more subtle way of offering his services. It’s something he’s still mulling over by the time he crosses back through the prison – Charlie’s not on duty anymore – and exits the main doors, blinking hard against the sudden sunlight. Even the sun, though, can’t chase away the gloom of being surrounded by concrete and metal – though the unexpected sight of Sherlock, standing beside Cas on the prison steps, certainly helps. It’d be a little ridiculous, almost – Sherlock’s found his long dark coat again, apparently, though at least it’s been scrubbed as clean as it’s probably ever going to get; and Cas has his ragged trench coat, both of them overdressed and standing there in the bright sunshine – if not for the way both articles of clothing just seem to fit them so perfectly. Seem to be part of them, even, in a way that makes John hurt a bit inside. He casts a glance over the prison courtyard – children playing out on the gravel, and sentries standing guard along the high walls – and then moves past Sherlock – puts a brief hand on his elbow, and gets a nod in return – to stand beside Cas, who simply blinks at him when John sticks out his hand. Watches him for a moment and then takes his hand between them, more simply holding on than shaking, an action that ends up being more endearing than anything else.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“Just – for helping us. None of you had to, and I – well, it’s appreciated.”   
  
“I am simply glad to have been of service.”  
  
He isn’t smiling, though – says it as serious and sad as he seems to say everything – and then he takes his hand back, shoots one last unreadable glance in Sherlock’s direction, and turns and walks back inside the shelter. John watches him go, for a moment, something inside his chest aching suddenly – and then turns to Sherlock, who’s frowning in that way he always does when he gets some new piece of data that doesn’t fit, and John raises his eyebrows, suddenly curious.  
  
“Well?”  
  
“Cas said he used to be an angel.”  
  
And that – brings John up short. And not the words themselves, but the fact that Sherlock is – not scoffing. Is frowning, looking almost pained, as though his mind is trying to make sense of something that makes absolutely no sense at all, and John all but grinds his teeth together – because the last thing he needs is something that might drag Sherlock away from reality in any way. Takes a step closer, and ignores the voice in the back of his that’s whispering that, once upon a time, zombies were imaginary creatures, too – because there are zombies and then there angels, and the latter is on a whole new level of crazy that John doesn’t even want to think about.  
  
“Sherlock – now, just – hang on. You, of all people –”  
  
“He said that his full name is ‘Castiel’. That he was sent to rescue Dean from Hell.”  
  
“And you – christ. You can’t tell me that you believe –”  
  
“He speaks more languages than any human should be able to. I stopped him at sixty-seven.”  
  
“But –”  
  
“A year ago zombies were also fictional.”  
  
 _“Sherlock –”_  
  
“I need more data. This is madness, and I cannot draw conclusions without the facts. I need –”  
  
“What you need is to not flip out over this, alright?”  
  
It’s taking a risk – even with everything they’ve been through together, Sherlock’s still not keen on being told what he needs to do, even if it’s more phrased as a suggestion – and when Sherlock stops scowling at the prison to glare at him, John takes a glance around them before mentally saying to hell with it and moving in to wrap Sherlock in a hug. For a moment, Sherlock is still against him – and then he seems to unlock, inch by inch, muscle by muscle, until they’re simply standing there on the prison steps, and John slides a hand down the length of Sherlock’s coat, along his back, loving the shiver that wracks Sherlock’s body, his voice rough against John’s ear.  
  
“You are attempting to distract me.”  
  
“Is it working?”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t say a word. Simply holds him tighter, presses his face gently into John’s neck – doesn’t seem to give a damn about anyone who might be watching , his skin hot against John’s – and John suddenly and desperately wants to crawl in under that coat and never come out again. Wants to make a home for himself underneath Sherlock’s skin, and live there forever. It’s a thought that makes him tighten his grip somewhat desperately – makes him press as close as he possibly can – and, god, it needs to be nighttime already, so they can go take advantage of those showers while the rest of the shelter is sleeping. It’s been far, far too long since he’s had the chance to use his mouth and hands and body to show Sherlock just how much he means to him.  
  
“John.”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“Before we leave, I need to know what these people know.”  
  
“What do you –”  
  
“Cas told me that Dean and Sam have extensive knowledge of the supernatural.”  
  
His voice is more or less steady, but John still feels a bit of a chill sneak through him. Gives it a second to process, and then pulls back to look Sherlock in the fact, not liking what he sees there.  
  
“You mean these monsters. The ones we’re fighting.”  
  
“Those, and more, apparently.”  
  
“Sherlock –”  
  
“Come with me. Dean likes you better than me. If anyone can convince him to talk –”  
  
“We’re going to go listen to ghost stories, then?”  
  
“The world has been overrun by zombies. I will take any information I can find.”  
  
And Sherlock looks completely serious. Looks like he’s actually considering whatever Cas told him, and it’s enough to make John grind his teeth together, because if even Sherlock – of all people – is willing to entertain the notion of things that go bump in the night, then John should probably start paying attention to the voice inside him that’s saying that Cas might have a point.  
  
“Fine. What do you suggest?”  
  
“Cas said that Dean and Sam have a collection of lore that I may be interested in.”  
  
“He’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?”  
  
“Perhaps it is my utter disregard for societal norms.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips twitch as he says it, and John just barely resists the impulse to kiss him. Squeezes his hand instead, and then steps back, though all he wants is to keep pressing himself against Sherlock.  
  
“Fine. Though Sam seemed rather sick when I met him. Perhaps we’d best –”  
  
“It can wait until tomorrow. For now, I wish to see more of this prison.”  
  
“Want company?”  
  
“Of course. I’d be lost without my –”  
  
Sherlock’s smiling as he says it, and John can’t even let him finish – can’t even believe Sherlock has chosen to remember that. Feels his stomach go all fluttery, his chest going too tight, and rocks up on his toes to press their mouths together, his hands sliding up to cradle Sherlock’s face – and Sherlock lets him kiss him, right then and there, on the steps of the prison, in full sight of everyone. By the time John pulls away again, Sherlock’s smiling even wider, perfect and beautiful and wonderful, his cheeks flushed and his eyes so fond John can barely meet them.  
  
“Why, Doctor Watson. People will talk.”  
  
His voice is breathless, though, the words less than steady, and John swallows around a sudden wave of love, and takes Sherlock’s hand again, holding tight to his fingers between their bodies.  
  
“Come on, you. We’ve got a prison to explore.”  
  
And Sherlock doesn’t say a word. Simply smiles at him some more, tighten his fingers, and lets John tug him back into the prison.  
  
\- - -  
  
Later on, after spending the day getting to know the shelter, the lights finally go out for the night.  
  
They wait until most of the prison is asleep, and then John goes to the washrooms and slides under one of the showers, stomach pulling pleasantly tight at the fact that there’s nobody else around. He gets the water going and soaps himself up for a bit until he hears the bathroom door open, and then he closes his eyes and hopes with all his being that it’s Sherlock, and not some random person – gets his answer when there’s a rush of cool air, and then Sherlock is pressed warm and wet against him, miles of soft skin, and John nearly falls over with the sudden shock of want. Bites his lip and lets his head fall back on Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock’s arms snake around him, and his mouth comes down to slide around John’s neck, making his eyes fall closed. Neither of them says anything – there’s nothing but the sound of the water, and Sherlock’s breathing against his ear – and then Sherlock’s hand slides down across his chest, rests on John’s stomach, and John hitches in a shaky breath, his knees going a bit weaker underneath him, and – god, he’s missed this. Thought they’d be tearing each other apart by now – but the slow drag of Sherlock’s hands is just as good, just as intoxicating, fingers sliding across his nipples and chest and back down to his stomach as Sherlock scrapes his teeth and lips along his neck, and John only realizes he’s panting when Sherlock smiles against his neck. Takes an even longer time to realize that this feels like seduction, Sherlock keeping the movements light and gentle, even as his cock slides against John’s ass, and the thought’s as much of an aphrodisiac as Sherlock’s hands on his body – but they’re in a public washroom, christ, and the longer they’re here, the greater the chances of someone random wandering in and making this a lot more complicated.  
  
“Relax.”  
  
“Sherlock –”  
  
“You tensed up. There’s nobody here but me.”  
  
“If someone –”  
  
“If someone joins us, then we’ll just have to be very quiet.”  
  
Sherlock’s voice is low and soft against his ear, and John should really be arguing, but coherent thought is difficult when Sherlock’s fingers are drawing circles against his stomach. He flashes back, suddenly, to the first time they did this – when Sherlock had been wide-eyed and nervous and so fucking desperate to not show it, and John’s heart had broken at being the first person who Sherlock had ever let get that close – and then closes his eyes again as Sherlock bites down gently against his damp shoulder, and – christ. He breathes through the slow burn inside him, lets Sherlock explore him, fingers light and gentle and teasing, until Sherlock’s hand slides down to wrap around his cock, and John squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, damn near whining through his teeth as Sherlock keeps the motion slow and careful and not nearly enough. Keeps it up until John’s trembling top to bottom, head still helplessly tipped back on Sherlock’s shoulder, his skin drawing tight all over – until it’s taking everything he has to stay where he is – but somehow he does, grits his teeth and holds tight to Sherlock’s arm as Sherlock slowly brings him higher, until Sherlock’s hand speeds up, his other hand sliding up to rub circles against John’s nipple, and John can’t stop the tiny whimper, helpless heat spreading out through him as he bucks up into Sherlock’s fist, everything soaking wet and hot as he squirms against Sherlock.  
  
 _“Sherlock –”_  
  
“I love having you like this.”  
  
And Sherlock – John hasn’t even touched him yet, and Sherlock already sounds wrecked. Voice rough against John’s ear, barely audible over the roar of the shower, and John presses back – shudders at the feeling of Sherlock’s cock sliding against his ass, at the way Sherlock groans and thrusts against him – and then finds himself held still by Sherlock’s fingers on his hip, his other hand never stopping its slow movement around John’s cock, warm and slippery and _not enough_.  
  
“Just – let me.”  
  
It sounds bitten out, Sherlock’s teeth scraping across his skin, and John helplessly tilts his head to the side, giving Sherlock even more access to his neck, lips and teeth and tongue licking and biting at him, shattering bits of sensation underneath the warm water on his skin – but, somehow, John does as Sherlock says, and makes himself stay where he is as Sherlock slowly takes him apart. Makes his legs hold him as Sherlock’s mouth and fingers never stop their exploration, his other hand never leaving John’s cock, keeping him at a slow, maddening burn, until he finally speeds up, grip tightening, slightly, and John can feel it spreading out inside him, a low, throbbing heat that threatens to burn up – and then Sherlock drags a finger down the crease of his ass, presses against the entrance to his body, and John’s suddenly right on the edge, shaking, barely able to breathe. Makes a noise that sounds almost pained, and hangs there, helplessly, for a long moment, Sherlock’s hand sliding along his cock and his finger massaging circles against his asshole – and then he crests, tips over, as Sherlock`s teeth sink down into the side of his neck again, and everything goes hot and white behind his eyes as Sherlock strokes him through it, his hand never slowing until John finally whines and clutches tight to his wrist, stilling Sherlock’s hand as he pants for air under the hot spray and just lets Sherlock hold him up, his knees gone from underneath him and his heart slamming so fast it hurts. For a moment, he just hangs there, clutching at Sherlock’s arms – and then Sherlock exhales low and shaky against his neck, and John nearly chokes on the wave of affection, somehow makes his legs turn him around, finds Sherlock’s mouth in the dark, and kisses him under the hot spray. Clings to him and just kisses him, still too boneless to do much else, until Sherlock’s breathing hard against him, his hands tight against John’s back, and John gets a hand down in between them and wraps it around Sherlock’s cock, loving the way Sherlock groans into his mouth and bucks towards him. Clutches tight to him in the darkness.  
  
“John –”  
  
“Is this – what do you –”  
  
“Perfect, hell – perfect, this is –”  
  
And then Sherlock’s mouth finds his again, cutting himself off, and John has barely begun to take Sherlock apart – gets his mouth down on his soaked chest, and bites his way across it; closes his lips around a nipple, licks and sucks, and loves the way it makes Sherlock buck against him; tightens his grip around Sherlock’s cock and speeds up, wants to get him close and then back off again; wants to take his time and make Sherlock shake himself apart, the same way Sherlock had done with him – when Sherlock goes still against him and spills all over his hand, warm and wet and his arms tightening around John and his voice breaking on a low moan into John’s hair, and John is suddenly shaking nearly as badly as Sherlock. Strokes him through it and then pulls Sherlock close, holding on tighter to him under the hot water as their breathing starts to level out, their hearts still slamming together in between them, and Sherlock’s fingers so tight against his back they’re sure to leave bruises; and then Sherlock murmurs his name, low and shaky and barely audible over the hot water, and John’s chest suddenly hurts. He swallows hard, tightens his grip around Sherlock, and just holds on to him, nothing but the two of them alone in the darkness, and the shower pounding down on them, washing them both clean again.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, John wakes up in Sherlock’s arms in their small cot – they’ve moved into a cell just across the hallway from Harry, both of them crammed into the small bottom bunk – and feels safe and content in ways he hasn’t for longer than he cares to think about. Sherlock, even, doesn’t seem keen to leave their bed, despite the fact that they have an entire shelter to keep exploring; and they only finally get up when Charlie comes by to tell them that Dean’s back from a supply run, and could probably use some help getting everything sorted out. She smiles at the sight of them, there – curled up in a bunk that was never meant to fit two fully grown adults – and John thinks there might even be something fond in her eyes as she looks at Sherlock, despite the way they’ve done nothing but snarl at each other since they first met, and John has a moment of hoping that the two of them might eventually be able to come to some kind of understanding.  
  
Whatever the case, John and Sherlock eventually end up in front of the prison, at the bottom of the steps, with a tarp stretched across the ground, and the sun burning bright overhead, heating up the concrete and gravel around them until the courtyard feels like an oven. Dean and his team had been able to bring back weapons and food – and John has yet another moment of marvelling at the way Dean has no qualms about regularly putting himself in the firing line – and John had offered to help sort through the ammo; something that’s making him feel useful, at least, even if Sherlock and Dean haven’t stopped arguing since the moment John and Sherlock walked outside.  
  
“You could always help us sort this shit, you know.”  
  
“I’m thinking.”  
  
“You’re annoying.”  
  
“This from the man who tried to turn left at –”  
  
“Hey, just because you’ve lived in this city for years –”  
  
“I trust that, from now on, you will allow me to plan your supply mission routes beforehand?”  
  
“Actually, as pain in the ass as you are, I was hoping you two’d come with me on my next run.”  
  
Judging by the way Sherlock’s face twists, it’s not exactly the response he had been hoping for, but John just shoves a bit closer to him – Sherlock is sitting on the steps, glowering, still wrapped in that damn coat despite the insanely hot sunshine, while Dean and John are sorting through the packages of ammunition, dividing everything up by type of bullet – and lets their knees bump together as he dumps another bag onto the tarp, several bullet packages landing around his boots.  
  
“So, we passed the test, then?”  
  
“Your boyfriend here knows every alley, and you’re one of the best shots I’ve ever seen. Course ya did.”  
  
Dean says it like it’s an obvious thing, finishes the sentence on a bit of a snort, but John still can’t quite stop the flush of pleasure, much the same as when Charlie had complimented him on the exact same thing. It’s clear that Dean’s an old soldier – despite the way he’s quite obviously much younger than John – and John’s not gonna try to kid himself and pretend that the praise means nothing. He has a feeling that Dean’s not someone who hands out compliments lightly.  
  
“So you want to keep dragging us along, then?”  
  
“Hey, man. You’re the genius here. I’ve got an entire prison full of people to feed. And if you could get that stick out of your ass, maybe you’d see how desperately I need people like you.”  
  
Sherlock makes a noise like he doesn’t even know what part of that to respond to – whether he should be insulted, or whether he should be preening under Dean’s acknowledgment of his impressive brain – but John’s attention is more fixed on Dean, who suddenly looks exhausted. There’s still plenty of daylight left, and John can clearly see the tired lines on Dean’s face – it looks, somehow, like he just reminded himself of just how massive his task really is, and really doesn’t want to be dealing with that awareness right now – and John glances at the prison wall, feeling Dean’s sudden exhaustion creep in to join him, along with an unpleasant wave of unease.  
  
“What are they, anyway? The creatures out there. We’ve been fighting them for months, but we don’t actually –”  
  
“You really wanna know?”  
  
“Of course we do.”  
  
Sherlock’s voice is sharp, suddenly excited, his brooding demeanour completely gone as he leans forward on his knees to stare at Dean, and Dean raises his eyebrows at him before he dumps out another bag of ammo onto the tarp beneath their feet, kneeling down to start sorting through it.  
  
“It’s not a pretty story. None of it.”  
  
“Cas told me that he used to be an angel.”  
  
“Course he did. Dude doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.”  
  
“I asked him for proof.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“He had nothing definitive to offer.”  
  
“Yeah, well. I’d be telling you a lot crazier than that, and you’d have to just believe me.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Sherlock sounds impatient, now – looks like he’s barely holding himself still on the steps – and Dean scowls at him for a moment, glances at John, and then glances down at the piles of ammo.  
  
“What else did Cas tell you?”  
  
“That this virus is demonic in nature.”  
  
“Yup. Croatoan. Nasty name, and everything.”  
  
“Surely you –”  
  
“Croats – those things out there – they’re real. Why not demons?”  
  
“Next you’ll be telling me –”  
  
“Ghosts. Ghouls, vampires, zombies – every urban legend you’ve heard? Most of them have truth to them. Remember the hook man? Yeah. Him. Then there are reapers. Vashta nerada. Wendigos. Anything that could possibly go bump in the night? It probably exists. Shall I go on?”  
  
“I hardly believe –”  
  
“How about the Devil? Ever believed in him?”  
  
For all that the sun is still up, it’s like the temperature around them actually drops several degrees – John actually feels a chill slide across his body. In front of him, Dean’s gone very still, glaring at Sherlock, who’s staring back at him with a look that John can’t quite decipher. Can’t figure out if Sherlock is believing any of this. Can’t figure out if he, himself, is believing any of this.  
  
“I’ve never –”  
  
“Because I’ve met the Devil, buddy. Stood right there in front of him. And you know what? He’s walking the Earth right now. Sam and I locked the bastard up, but he’s out again, and the world’s going to hell all over again – so if you want to do anything to help, then you’d best get with the damn program and start believing.”  
  
For a second, nobody moves. John realizes he’s barely breathing, can’t get enough air, because – jesus, Dean believes this. Say it like it’s one of the most truthful things he knows. And with the way the world has, indeed, crumbled – with the fact that there are monsters roaming the streets; and the fact that Dean and Cas seem like the ones who actually know how to fight them; and the fact that, christ, Sherlock had found _sulfur_ in the blood samples he’d been testing – well. Maybe John needs to start reconsidering Cas’ claim of having been an angel. Maybe he needs to take Dean’s words for what they’re worth and start figuring out how to kill things that go bump in the night – and maybe he needs to consider the idea of the Devil being more than a horror story. Watches as Sherlock seems to come to a similar conclusion, frowning a little bit harder at Dean.  
  
“You’re serious.”  
  
“Like a heart attack. And your giant intellect won’t save you if Satan comes knocking.”  
  
“Is that why you’re in London?”  
  
“Yeah. Heard that he’d made some kind of base here. Never found the bastard, though. And then we ended up trapped here, same as you two. Figured we’d save as many people as we could.”  
  
“And that – that meteor shower. Six months ago. The one that couldn’t be explained –”  
  
“Cas told you it was angels falling?”  
  
“He did.”  
  
“Yeah. The guy gave up everything to stop this future – and here it is, anyway. Waiting out there to drag us all down, while we hide in here, trapped, rationing our precious canned food. No angels left, the virus running rampant, and the Devil walking the Earth. Still glad you asked?”  
  
Dean’s not looking at them anymore – seems very intent on the bullets he’s gone back to sorting – and John realizes he’s been kneeling in the same place, holding the same package of bullets, for longer than he knows. Glances at Sherlock – who, somehow, looks almost helpless, suddenly, as though he has no idea what to do with this new flood of information – and then puts the bullets down. He doesn’t know Dean well enough to put a hand on his shoulder, but he can use his words, at least. Can try to stave off the anxiety he can feel trying to work its way across his body, because the minute he starts thinking about what Dean’s saying, it’s going to really hurt.  
  
“Why don’t you – it’s Sam, right? Your brother? Why don’t you go find Sam and Cas and Charlie and just – take a break, for the evening, or something. Sherlock and I can finish up here.”  
  
Sherlock, even, doesn’t make any kind of protesting noise – just sits in silence and watches them – and Dean looks up from the ammo to frown at John, and then glances at Sherlock, and then at John again, as though that is not exactly the reaction he’d be expecting – as though he’d been expecting them to run away screaming, or something – but whatever his response was going to be, it’s cut short when Sherlock suddenly makes a noise like he’s been punched, his mouth dropping open, and John spins around wildly to see what Sherlock’s staring at. There’s a group of new people being let through the prison guardroom – walking across the courtyard, the crunch of their feet across gravel as they near the prison, some of them barely staying upright, and most of them covered with blood and dirt and god knows what else, a swarm of exhausted faces –  
  
With Mycroft Holmes at the head of the group.  
  
For a moment, it doesn’t process. And then Sherlock’s on his feet and down the stairs, and John races after him, skidding to a halt behind him as Sherlock and Mycroft meet in the middle of the courtyard, and other people just keep on moving around past them, barely glancing at them. Mycroft is covered in blood and looking less put together than John’s ever seen him, a gun on one hip and a knife on the other, wearing jeans and a sweater, no hint of a fancy suit in sight; and John knows he’s gaping, can’t seem to shut his mouth, but from the way Sherlock’s doing the same, it’s quite obvious that John’s not the only one who feels like he’s been hit over the head.  
  
“But – what the hell are you doing –”  
  
“I need to see the people in charge.”  
  
“I want to know why you’re –”  
  
“That is a conversation best had not in front of other people.”  
  
Mycroft’s voice is low, barely audible, exhausted, and – even though he’s not sure what Mycroft means, John still feels the words rub against his every nerve in all the wrong ways, even as  
Sherlock stops talking and just stares at Mycroft, that silent communication that John doesn’t have a hope of deciphering – and then Sherlock swallows, hard, opens his mouth to speak, and Mycroft shakes his head, his eyes darting around to the crowd that’s almost finished swarming past them – but then Dean’s there beside John, squeezing his way in through the crowd, scowling at Mycroft and looking for all the world like he wasn’t just spilling his soul on the prison steps.  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
“I need to see the people in –”  
  
“I am the people in charge. And something ’bout you has got Sherlock here all in a tizzy, so –”  
  
“I am – or rather, I was – a senior member of the British government.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“The government making house calls, now?”  
  
There’s no humour in Dean’s voice, though, and Mycroft doesn’t even bother scowling at him – glances around, instead, obviously making sure that they’re alone, the crowd of people having reached the prison – and then Mycroft hesitates, swallows hard, and – christ. This is worse than if Mycroft was outright yelling. The last time John saw him like this, he had been chewing him out for betraying Sherlock – and, wow, that is a memory that he really doesn’t need right now.  
  
“Sherlock can vouch for the veracity of what I’m about to tell you.”  
  
“Dammit, would you just –”  
  
“Mycroft is my brother. And, indeed, he would not be here if it wasn’t true.”  
  
“Christ, if _what_ wasn’t –”  
  
“My superiors have deemed London to be a threat to the rest of the country.”  
  
Mycroft’s voice is mostly steady, but John thinks he hears something shaky there – and then the words actually sink in, and it’s like all the air has been punched out of John’s lungs. He steadies himself with a hand on Sherlock’s arm, _god, jesus, no_ , and watches, dimly, as Dean just stares at Mycroft. Stares at him, his expression blank, and doesn’t say a word – until he finally rubs a hand across his face, and takes a moment to stare at the ground before he looks up at Mycroft again.  
  
“How long?”  
  
“The first strike is scheduled for tomorrow. I arrived here as quickly as I could, but –”  
  
But Dean’s already moving, spinning away and heading towards the prison at a run, not stopping to answer the questions that get shouted at him as he barrels into the building. For a second, John, Sherlock and Mycroft just watch him go, and then Sherlock’s fingers slide down to tangle into John’s, holding his hand tight between them, and John swallows hard, and chokes against the burn in the back of his throat. Tries to not think about the hundreds of people in this shelter who won’t even have time to make it to the fence – let alone figure out a way to get through. Tries to not think about the fact that Harry and Sherlock are just as trapped as everyone else.  
  
“I don’t suppose you have some kind of magical answer.”  
  
“My superiors deemed my entrance to London a suicide mission. I have nothing to offer.”  
  
John just nods – he had figured as much, and it’s all too much, right now; numbing, even, though it’s gonna hurt something awful when that numbness wears off – but then Sherlock’s fingers tighten in his own, and Sherlock rounds on Mycroft, his expression lighting up in that way it only does when he’s solved a case.  
  
“Yes you do.”  
  
For a moment, Mycroft just frowns at him – and then Sherlock glances at the river, raises his eyebrows, and it’s like John can see the moment when their brains sync up, back to that silent communication that John has no hope of figuring out – but whatever it is, it’s gotta be better than sitting around and waiting to die, and John is therefore all for it.  
  
\- - -  
  
In the end, Sherlock and Mycroft’s plan is certainly better than nothing, even if it’s crazy; and by the time the sun’s going down, Dean and Cas and Charlie have left the prison to work on their part of the plan – to acquire a large boat of some kind from a nearby shipyard, and to bring said boat down the river, so that everyone from the prison can load up. John and Sam, for their part, have been put in charge of getting everyone ready to go; and John doesn’t envy Sam as Sam gets up in front of the crowd in the main hall, where everyone has congregated. Sherlock and Mycroft are nowhere to be seen – probably off planning what, exactly, Mycroft`s going to say to get them through the dam at the edge of the city – but Harry’s by his side, pale and silent. John’s already told her what’s happening, but the rest of the crowd has no idea, and there’s an uneasy stirring as Sam climbs up on a table and raises a hand, waiting for everyone to fall silent before he speaks.  
  
“I’m not going to sugar coat this. We have a problem.”  
  
Any remaining murmurs come to a stop. Even the dogs and the babies are quiet, the entire shelter seeming to collectively hold its breath, and John swallows hard as he glances around him. Takes in the frightened faces, the parents clutching at their children, and then looks back up at Sam, who looks just about as bad as John feels, his expression twisting a bit before he speaks again.  
  
“The government has ordered the bombing of London. We’re working on a plan to –”  
  
Mayhem.  
  
John nearly gets knocked off his feet as the crowd scatters, breaking out in every direction, some heading back to their cells, others running for the doors – and John can hear Sam yelling, can just seem him through the crowd, trying to get people to calm down, but it’s no good. Catches sight of Harry’s wide eyes, and then she’s grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the swarm, both of them pressing up against a wall – and then Sam’s jumping off his table and jogging over to them, weaving his way through the crowd until he’s in front of them, looking more than a bit frazzled.   
  
“John – dammit. I need – can you go to the guardhouse? If they break into the quarantine area –”  
  
John just nods, and Sam nods back before he’s gone again, and John glances around one last time for Sherlock before he and Harry head for the doors at a run, tearing out across the gravel, everyone still clearly visible in in the dim light from the setting sun. People are already at the guardhouse door, banging and yelling and trying to get through to the outside world, trying to push into the quarantine zone, and John can see the wide eyes of the guards inside as they glance around, trying to figure out what to do, looking at the quarantined people and then back to the swarm inside the walls – and he shoves his way to the front, Harry at his side, and puts his face up against the metal gate, but none of the guards are paying any attention him – turns around to the crowd again, a mess of yelling and screaming and shoving. Watches at someone literally gets knocked over, half-trampled, and dives in with Harry to pull the guy back to his feet before John steps back against the gate, grits his teeth, and pulls out his gun, pointing it up at the sky and having a moment of feeling like he’s in some B-rated horror movie before he pulls the trigger.  
  
It does the trick.  
  
With screams and shouts, the crowd scatters backwards, tripping over each other, falling silent save for murmurs as everyone stares at him, a mess of angry and terrified faces – and John swallows hard as he keeps his gun up high in the air, making sure to point it very firmly away from the people in front of him. Beside him, Harry has gone very still, her hand on the knife at her belt as everyone in front of them goes quiet, and John takes a deep breath before speaking.   
  
“Sam and Dean have a plan to get you out of here. If you’d only listen –”  
  
“Who are you to tell us what do?”  
  
It’s a yell from the crowd, a young man who looks more frightened than angry, way too young with wide eyes and his arm wrapped around an even younger kid, and John raises his hands a bit higher – gun still pointed away from everyone – as the crowd stirs again, barely staying in place.  
  
“Listen to me, alright? The first strike is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Even if you _could_ reach the edge of the city by then – which you can’t – you would still be killed at the fence.”  
  
“You don’t know –”  
  
“I _do_ know that – and so do you. If you leave now, you’ll never leave this city alive, and you all damn well know it, so – just let Sam and Dean help you, alright? The same way they’ve been doing all along.”   
  
He keeps his voice as level as he can – has no idea what he’ll do if they start pushing again – and then holds his breath as the crowd stays in place, people glancing side-long at each other, shifting uneasily but not making any attempt to move forward. Behind them, more people are coming, slowing and stretching to see over the crowd to what’s happening up front, and John takes a deep breath and raises his voice to almost a yell, hoping desperately that everyone will be able to hear.  
  
“So here’s the plan, alright? Dean is acquiring a boat to take everyone in this prison to the dam, and there is a man in this shelter who worked for the British government. If anyone can talk us out through the dam, it’s him – but on your own, if you leave now, you have no chance, so. How about we all go back inside and gather our things for when Dean gets back here with that boat?”  
  
For a moment, he doesn’t think it’s going to work. Then, one by one, people start to break off, turning and heading back to the prison, and John stays right where he is as the swarm gets smaller and smaller, until there are only a few people hanging around, looking desperate and confused – and Harry glances at him before she walks over to one of them, her voice low and soothing as she starts to talk, and John takes a deep breath and lowers his gun, leaning back against the gate and letting it hold him up, closing his eyes until he hears someone clear their throat behind him. When he turns back around, he finds, to his surprise, the young man who’d drawn his blood the first night he had come to the shelter. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, his dark hair is a mess on his head, and there’s gratitude written across every inch of his face.  
  
“Thanks, man. I don’t know what we’d have – but did you – did I hear you say –”  
  
“Yes. The government – yes. Starting tomorrow afternoon, we’re – Sam tried to tell the crowd –”  
  
“And it went over fantastically, apparently.”  
  
His voice is shaky, though, and the colour has drained from his face, and John swallows, glances around to make sure that everyone’s still keeping away from the gate, and then sticks a couple of fingers through the wires, a mockery of a handshake that the man nevertheless tries to return.  
  
“Kevin Tran.”  
  
“John Watson. Are you – Charlie mentioned a Kevin. Said –”  
  
“Yeah, that’d be me. She’s wicked with a gun, and I’ve got two years of volunteer paramedic training, so. I’m the one who gets to draw blood, while she’s out gutting Croats and kicking ass.”  
  
His smile’s as shaky as his voice, though – it hurts to look at, actually – and John simply nods, takes a moment to glance around for Harry – she’s talking to a young boy, tears down his face, and with no sign of a parent around – and then turns back to Kevin, who doesn’t seem to be regaining any of his colour. Manages a smile, somehow, though he doubts it’s very convincing.  
  
“I’ll stick around. And you had best keep working on those blood tests. Once Dean gets back –”  
  
“Right. Of course.”  
  
If anything, Kevin goes even paler at the realization – _anyone who hasn’t been tested isn’t getting on that ship_ – and then spins back around to what he was doing, sitting down at a table in front of his microscope, and John ponders his options and tries to figure out what to do. By the time Harry comes back over, he’s made up his mind, and he lowers his gun and turns to her.  
  
“I need to help with the tests. Can you –”  
  
“S’all good, John. I’ve got this.”  
  
She smiles at him as she says it – indeed, there aren’t many people around; certainly not enough to break their way into the guardhouse – and John smiles back before he turns back to the gate.  
  
“Kevin? If you’d like any assistance, I’m a doctor, so –”  
  
“Oh, god – yes, please. I’m so not qualified for this job, you don’t even – just. Yes, thank you.”  
  
And then Kevin’s up on his feet and opening the gate, looking incredibly grateful – Harry puts a hand on her knife and keeps an eye on the remaining people as the door opens, but nobody moves – and John slips in to the guardroom, holstering his gun with a sudden and unexpected wave of gratitude. Apparently, after several months of fighting for his life and killing monsters, it’ll be good to spend some time as a doctor, again; and he pushes away thoughts of the outside world as he sits down beside Kevin, who stares at him with an almost questioning expression, and – it takes John a second to realize that Kevin’s waiting for instruction, waiting for John to set the stage here, and then he can’t stop an actual smile. The first genuine smile he’s had in a while.  
  
“Why don’t you take the remaining samples while I start testing?”  
  
And when Kevin simply nods and smiles back, scooting his chair over so that he can be beside the slot in the fence, where people are waiting to put their arms through, John steadies himself, pulls the microscope closer, and hopes like hell that all the results will be negative for sulfur.  
  
\- - -  
  
By the time Kevin and John have taken the last samples, it’s somewhere past three in the morning, and there’s still no sign of Dean and Cas and Charlie.  
  
John has taken to pacing the guardroom – there are only three quarantined people left; a mother and her two children – in a futile effort to make the time go by faster. Upon joining Kevin, he learned that the virus only shows up about four hours after someone becomes infected, which means that they have another hour to go before they can check the samples for this mom and her kids – and John is damn well ready to chew his nails off. Tries to not think about Dean and Cas and Charlie out there, somewhere, trying to fight their way through an infested shipyard. Tries to not think about what they’ll do about this mom and kids if Dean and Cas and Charlie get back before John and Kevin can check the last three remaining blood samples. Damn near paces a hole in the floor as Kevin sits in the corner and reads a book, Harry still sitting up against the other side of the gate, though most everyone in the shelter seems to have settled in to packing and relatively calm acceptance – but by the time five in the morning comes and goes, and the mom and her kids have finally been let into the shelter, there’s still no sign of Dean and Cas and Charlie, and John is starting to feel sick. Has a moment of desperately wanting to be close to Sherlock – wonders where he is, exactly; though at least he can be sure he’s still within the prison walls – and then jumps when suddenly Dean is there, hanging off the fence in the quarantine room, covered in blood and dirt and looking like he’s just been to hell and back again.   
  
“Dean!”  
  
Kevin’s across the room, pressed up against the barrier, and Dean coughs and shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment before he fixes his gaze on John, looking furious with himself.  
  
“We could only get a small boat. Cas and Charlie are guarding it.”  
  
“You mean –”  
  
“Take Mycroft and Sherlock. Go to the dam and plead our case. There weren’t any – not a single damn barge left, and all the yachts long since sunk, and – go, alright? Sam and I’ll stay here.”  
  
“But –”  
  
It’s Kevin who tries to interrupt, sounding more than a little frantic, suddenly, but Dean’s already shaking his head again, even as he starts rolling up his sleeve, ready to slide his arm through.  
  
“You’re going with them – and no arguments, you got it? Charlie and Cas can’t, cause for all John knows, they’ve been exposed, and I know damn well that Sam’ll be way too fucking stubborn to listen to me – but you, at least, can get out of here, okay?”   
  
_“Dean –”_  
  
“Someone’s gotta stay with these people, in case the bombs start falling – but that someone ain’t you. You’ve done your part, Kev. Now take your fucking sample so I can get back into the damn shelter.”  
  
“You can’t just –”  
  
“ _Now_ , Kevin.”  
  
Dean sounds like he’s grinding his teeth together, glaring at Kevin through the fence, and Kevin wavers for a second before he curses and spins around to grab a clean needle – and John watches them for a moment, before he turns and enters back into the courtyard, where Harry’s wide-eyed.  
  
“Did you –”  
  
“Heard everything. Mycroft and Sherlock –”  
  
“I’ll find them. You need to get anything else?”   
  
She shakes her head, and John squeezes her elbow for a second before he tears up through the courtyard, chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with his sprint across the gravel. Gets up the stairs and into the prison – and damn near plows right into Sherlock, who steadies him with a hand on each elbow, staring at him with an expression that says he already suspects the worst.  
  
“Are they –”  
  
“Could only find a small boat. Us, Harry, and Mycroft – we’ve gotta go. Make it to the dam –”  
  
“And ask the government to delay the strike.”  
  
Mycroft has appeared beside Sherlock, still looking as calm as he ever does, although his expression is one of distaste; and John stays long enough to nod before he tears jogs to their cell and grabs his bag, wanting to have his medical kit, at the very least. By the time he gets to the prison guardhouse again, Sherlock and Mycroft and Harry are all waiting at the side door to the outside world, the hallway that bypasses the quarantine zone; and the four of them look at each other for a moment before Sherlock pushes the door open, and they all file out, Kevin not saying a word as he shuts the door behind them. For a second, John thinks that will be it – and then he hears Dean cursing, along with what sounds a lot like something punching a rather solid wall.   
  
“Dammit, Kevin –”  
  
“I’m staying.”  
  
“You –”  
  
“Get out of here, guys.”  
  
Kevin manages the tiniest of smiles through the grill of the door he’s just closed, and then he’s gone again, and John – needs to not be worrying about him right now. Pulls out his gun, Sherlock and Mycroft doing the same, while Harry’s got her knife in her hand, and John pauses long enough to meet Dean’s eyes through the guardhouse gate – stares at him for a moment, feels a little sick at the anger and helplessness he can see there, and then Dean grits his teeth and nods, not saying a word, and John nods back and turns away, his stomach pulling all tight and his chest aching unpleasantly – and then they’re gone, scrambling  down the riverbank to where John can see Cas and Charlie standing beside a motorboat. John keeps his gun on them – hates that there’s no way to know for sure; hates that there’s even the tiniest chance that any of this could be a ruse – but Charlie and Cas simply move away, Charlie managing a pained smile as John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Harry all climb into the small boat, Harry sliding over to take control of the motor.  
  
“Well, I guess this is it, then.”  
  
“Charlie –”  
  
“Nah, just – you guys just pull out your very best sweet-talking skills, alright?”  
  
“We’ll do everything we can.”  
  
John’s voice is almost lost – Harry barely waits for him to finish speaking before she starts the motor again – and Charlie nods at him before she steps away, leaving Cas to stare at them for a second before he does the same, moving away from the bank and not saying a word – and then the boat starts to move, water spraying up all along the sides, and John watches as Cas and Charlie get smaller and smaller on the bank, until he can just barely make out Charlie’s red hair and Cas’ trenchcoat – manages to turn around, tries to push them out of his mind, tries to not think about everyone they’re leaving behind, and finds Mycroft looking even grimmer than normal as Harry pilots the boat. Swallows hard, puts his gun beside him, and raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Well?”  
  
“In all likelihood, we will be eliminated before we get anywhere near the dam.”  
  
“But there’s a chance –”  
  
“I will stand at the front of the boat. If someone recognizes me in time – but it is not likely.”  
  
“And if –”  
  
“If they start shooting, we can take to the water, but we will not get far.”  
  
Mycroft says it as calmly as he says everything, but there’s a twist to his expression, and John glances over at Harry – sees her very determinedly concentrating on steering the boat, and not looking at Mycroft – and swallows down the helplessness as he shakes his head, suddenly angry.  
  
“No. This is not how this ends.”  
  
“John –”  
  
“We run up the white flag. Use my cardigan. Makes ourselves as human as we possibly can.”  
  
“It will not –”  
  
“Hell, the entire damn country knows Sherlock’s face – and he was cleared of everything, even as the attacks began, remember? So even if the frontline soldiers might not recognize you –”  
  
“It will not make any difference. The orders will be to kill anyone who approaches.”  
  
“Even if that anyone is Mycroft Holmes, or London’s great Reichenbach hero?”  
  
“Even if.”  
  
He smiles a bit as he says it – a sad looking little thing, but more emotion than John normally sees on him – and Sherlock’s face twists a bit, before he pulls his coat tighter around him and hunches down a bit, glaring down at the boat below his feet. For a moment, nobody says anything – there’s nothing but the sound of the water and rushing wind, nothing but the sight of London’s ruins sliding by on either side, buildings falling down and people scrambling madly about on the far banks – and then Sherlock shakes his head and straightens up a bit more again.  
  
“No. John’s right. There must be something more we can do.”  
  
“If there was, dear brother, you and I would have already thought of it by now.”  
  
The sad finality there is actually chilling – makes John literally feel cold from the inside out – and John turns away to watch the ruined banks of London sliding by, no longer able to look at anyone else. Goes over an increasingly number of desperate plans in his mind – anything that could get them out alive, even though he’s well aware of the truth to Mycroft’s words – and by the time they’re within sight of the dam – a dangerous continuation of the fence, with tanks and soldiers stationed all along the top of it, and bodies floating around in the water below it – he’s come up with nothing more. Stares at the dam, completely impenetrable, and then turns to watch Sherlock, who’s scowling at the dam as though he can get through it with the sheer force of his will. For a moment, nobody moves – and then Mycroft turns to Harry, who’s looking sick.  
  
“Hold the boat steady for us.”  
  
She simply nods, not saying a word, and John watches as Mycroft stands, moving to stand in the bow of the boat, his back straight and his expression completely blank. After a moment, Sherlock moves to stand beside him, hands held loose at his sides as he glares at the dam, and John slides off his cardigan, steps up to stand beside Sherlock, and raises the white material as high as he can, holding it above his head. Sherlock glances at him, glare melting into something that looks almost helpless, before he grabs John hand in between them and squeezes. Doesn’t say a word – John’s not sure what either of them could even say, at this point, that they don’t already both know – and then closes his eyes before turning back to the dam, holding tight to John’s hand –  
  
And that’s how they approach. Harry holding the boat steady, and Mycroft, Sherlock and John standing at the front of the boat, Sherlock and John’s hands clasped together, and John using his other hand to hold the cardigan above his head. There’s nothing but the sound of the water, for a long moment, as they get closer and closer, until John can just begin to make out the individual faces of the soldiers – and then there’s a voice booming out across the water, loud and horrible.  
  
“Turn around, or we will shoot.”  
  
“Cut the motor.”  
  
Mycroft’s voice is a hiss, and Harry scrambles to comply, the motor falling silent behind them as they gradually slow down, drifting only with their lingering momentum – and then there’s a hail of bullets into the water in front of them, and John flinches, grinds his teeth, hears Harry make a terrified sound behind him, and raises the cardigan higher, waving it furiously and _god, please_ –   
  
“This is your final warning. If you do not turn around –”  
  
“You know me, Sanders!”  
  
“ – we will kill you.”  
  
“Dammit, Sanders, at least let us talk!”  
  
Mycroft’s words are a weak shout in comparison to the booming megaphone, and John waves his sweater some more, sweat beading on his skin and fear turning his stomach over – tries to ignore the bodies bumping up against the boat as they drift closer – tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand, still standing steady and silent beside him, and, christ, _John dragged him into this,_ he should have never – should have somehow gotten Harry and Sherlock out sooner – blinks back sudden tears, regret burning foul in his mouth and his entire body bracing for the impact of bullets –   
  
But there’s nothing. No bullets. Just the slow slide of water until they’re within about fifteen feet of the dam, close enough that John can see the wide-eyed, shocked expressions on the soldiers’ faces – imagines what they look like, the Reichenbach hero and his faithful blogger, and prays that it’s enough; prays that whoever Mycroft’s talking to will have mercy – and then a new solider appears on the dam in front of them, rifle pointed at Mycroft and his expression pained.  
  
“Goddamn you, Mycroft Holmes. You have two minutes to convince me to not kill you.”  
  
The relief is so great that it nearly takes John’s knees out from underneath him. Sucking in a steadying breath and tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hand, he closes his eyes as Mycroft begins to talk.


	6. Epilogue

In the end, they delay the bombing by three days.  
  
It’s not an easy process. John, Sherlock, Mycroft and Harry are kept in quarantine for nearly twenty-four hours, with Mycroft and Sherlock – hands and feet chained, and Sherlock looking like it’s taking everything he has to keep from spitting venom across the table – seated across from military officials, government members, and countless scientists and doctors, discussing blood samples and virus incubation times. In the end, it’s the original samples from months back that save them – the infected samples Sherlock had studied, as compared to their own clean blood – but John knows damn well that, if they hadn’t had Mycroft with them, they would have been gunned down before they got anywhere near that dam. Is reminded, again, of why Sherlock had introduced his brother as, _He is the British government_. Reminded again of just how much power Mycroft Holmes holds, even – or, perhaps, especially – in a world that’s fallen apart.  
  
Of course, that power isn’t enough to save London completely.  
  
Mycroft tries. He sits in on more meetings in a two-day period than should have been humanly possible. Talks to more government officials and military leaders than John can count. John and Sherlock and Harry all try, too – they talk to anyone who will listen, Sherlock citing facts and statistics and rational reasons to preserve the city, with John and Harry doing something that he damn well knows is begging, as they try to appeal to basic humanity – but it doesn’t work. The government agrees to send in a rescue mission for the people at the prison – and only those people; agrees to dispatch several boats to bring them down the river to the dam, as originally planned – but as soon as they’ve been evacuated and quarantined, safely removed from London, the rest of the city is to be flattened under a series of strikes that won’t leave anything standing.  
  
The night that London gets bombed, Harry takes refuge in her own room, and John lies with his head underneath his pillow, unable to stop the tears as he listens to the bombs fall; and Sherlock disappears completely, only re-appearing the next afternoon, looking exhausted and haunted, and completely unwilling to talk about it. Their one saving grace is the quarantine zone that the evacuated prison dwellers have all been locked into – several hundred lives; a small amount compared to the dead, but still a victory, nevertheless – and Mycroft eventually gets permission for John and Sherlock to visit.  Gets them passes into the building – yet another prison – where everyone is being held while the hundreds of blood samples are tested; but no matter how many cells John and Sherlock go to – a chorus of gratitude following them as they walk by, and, god, John can’t stop his skin from burning, because if anyone should be getting the thanks for saving these people, it’s Mycroft – there’s no sign of Dean or the others. It’s like they’ve just disappeared, and John’s fighting down a horrible sense of rising dread – what if, somehow, they hadn’t made it out? – by the time they find Jasmine, whose eyes light up at the sight of them, as she jumps to her feet and grasps the bars between them, grinning so bright it’s nearly blinding.  
  
“Heroes twice over, you two are. I can’t thank you enough.”   
  
“You should be thanking Sherlock’s brother. He’s the one who got us out.”  
  
“And you’re the ones – the two of two, and Harry – who were right there him in that boat, so. None of us’ll ever forget that. You deserve knighthoods, the whole glorious lot of ya.”  
  
John can’t stop another flush – can’t quite figure out even to say to that – but Sherlock gives her a small smile – one that looks completely genuine – before his expression slides back into the same slightly concerned, slightly puzzled look he’s been wearing almost since they got here, and John remembers exactly why. Isn’t sure he wants to know the answer, but knows he has to ask.  
  
“Dean and the others. Cas, Sam, Charlie, Kevin – we haven’t seen any of them. Did they –”  
  
Jasmine cuts him off with a snort of laughter, her eyes glowing a bit brighter as she grins at them through the bars, and John frowns nearly as hard as Sherlock, not understanding where this is going.  
  
“What’s – why is that funny? Did they –”  
  
“Oh, no – they made it out of the city just fine. They were on the ships, same as everyone else.”  
  
“Then what –”  
  
“Charlie once hacked into NORAD, so. If anyone could break out of here, I bet it’d be them.”  
  
“But why –”   
  
“Something about shape-shifting monsters wearing their faces? Something nuts like that, anyway. Whatever it was, Sam, and Dean, and Cas, well – they’re all wanted men in America, so. I’m not surprised they didn’t hang around long enough for the British police to figure it out.”  
  
John is distantly aware that his mouth is hanging open – though what’s getting to him more, the idea of shapeshifters being real, or the idea that anyone could ever break out of such a tight quarantine, he’s not sure – but Sherlock makes a noise that sounds almost amused, before he nods his thanks and moves away from the cell, John steadying himself long enough to give Jasmine a small smile before he turns to follow – but he’s only gone a few steps when Jasmine calls out again, the amusement gone from her face when John and Sherlock turn back around.  
  
“Oh, and, Sherlock – do me a favour and thank that brother of yours for me, alright? He might not have been able to save our city, but there are several hundred folks here still breathing thanks to him, so – thank you, truly. To all of you. From the bottom of our hearts, more than I can say.”  
  
Her voice is loud enough that several people in the surrounding cells hear it – there’s a general murmur of agreement, voices raising around them as people stare at John and Sherlock through the bars, everyone looking exhausted and still terrified but somehow managing to smile – and Sherlock pauses for a moment, glances around at everyone, and then nods at Jasmine, voice soft.  
  
“I will tell him.”  
  
She simply smiles one last time, and Sherlock glances around at everyone again before he turns and walks down the hallway in silence, his dark coat billowing around him, and John follows after him, unable to speak, everything inside him aching with the sudden bone-deep gratitude that the people in these cells are still alive. The destruction of London will be something that the country never recovers from – but these few hundred, at least, have the chance to go on living.  
  
\- - -  
  
Three months later, Harry has become a permanent resident at Mycroft’s base – along with Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly, who had been ecstatic when Sherlock and John had made it back alive – and Sherlock and John are standing on the high wall around the compound, staring out across the green emptiness in front of them, a sea of green fields broken by only a few trees.  
  
The sun’s nearly down – stars beginning to dot across the sky – and Sherlock has his arms wrapped around John, who’s leaning back against him, rifle in his hands even as he lets Sherlock hold him in place. Sherlock had spent the day in the lab, as always – working with the best minds Mycroft could find, all of them desperately trying to discover a cure – and John had taken to working the sundown shifts, keeping an eye out in case anything should try to get too close; and the result has been these shared moments in the evening, with Sherlock breathing against him, and nothing but the empty countryside around them. It’s deceptively calm, even – John knows very well that, at some point, the destruction of the rest world could easily spill into this safe haven – but it’s something he does his best to not think about; and as Sherlock tightens his grip, he’s reminded of exactly why. Someday, somehow, Sherlock and the others are going to find that miracle cure – they have to. And then he and Sherlock can grow old together – can spend many  more years together – even if that means having to scrape out a brand new existence in a post-apocalyptic world. As long as John had Sherlock beside him, there are no monsters they can’t beat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone fancies being tumblr buddies (http://twisting-vine-x.tumblr.com/), I'm always happy to make new friends. ♥


End file.
